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Time was my Mother

Time was my Mother

Once upon a Time, and all good stories begin with Once upon a Time, there is a man living in a prison cell. This prison doesn't have walls or boundaries. The sentence is a lifetime of punishment.

I guess you could say I have built a few fortresses around a couple ghosts, in my day. Not that it matters to you, but I have a story to tell, even if there is Nobody to hear it. This isn't a fairy tale, so don't plan on a happily ever after. In the Real World, there are no happy endings, just noisy intermissions. There is so much more to tell than Time will allow. Take for granted my benevolence, it won't last for long, so if you feel an allegiance with Time, abandon this endeavor, now!

"Guard!" This prison may not have walls, but I can't help but to feel a little bit imprisoned by Silence. "Guard!" My screaming awakens Nobody. I am receiving a very unexpected visitor. She takes a seat at the foot of my bed, tucking gorgeous legs underneath her. Even though the light in my cell is poor, I can make out her distinct features. The years have treated her very well. She smiles at my recognition. I have been dreaming.

"May I offer you something to drink?" I begin to take possession of my senses, after the initial shock of her presence wears off. It is cold, and smells of rain.

Up until this moment, Time has kept to her friendship with Silence. She blinks, scratches her head, and debates her words. I wait patiently for her reply.

"I have come a great distance to see you."

"Funny, I always thought Time to be omnipotent." I pour myself a very large dose of tequila, which quickly disappears, with a cough.

"You have torn Midnight from me!" she says suddenly, "My only daughter, and you have taken her heart, her soul, for all I know, her virginity! I demand that you stop seeing her, this moment. Where is she? I must speak with her!"

Pouring myself another tequila with shaking hands, I wonder how I could have become involved with this crazy family of immortals. The firewater's warm effect stifles my urge to scream in Time's face. I could never explain how my life felt so empty, without Midnight.

We had a pretty good thing going, until Time stuck her dirty fingers into our affairs. Time had promised Midnight's hand to Death, just to get back at Dawn, I suppose. Time and Dawn have never gotten along. Ask anybody. Time is horribly jealous of Dawn. I mean, who could blame her? Dawn is far more beautiful than Time, by a long shot. Time is so used to getting her own way, she comes off rather bitchy. Dawn and Time couldn't really be sisters, could they? Like opposing sides of the moon, wouldn't you say? The stars smile in agreement.

"I love her, you know." I really didn't know what to say, even though I had been over this conversation in my head, on several different occasions.

"Of course, you love her, and why shouldn't you? She is the greatest thing that ever happened to me, and you, and everybody else. Midnight is one of a kind. And you, a mere mortal with shining eyes and polished words, comes along and kidnaps her. I have friends in some pretty high places. If I have any say in the matter, you won't be sitting here in this comfortable hole, wallowing away the years. Remember, little boy, someday, you too, are going to have to die."

She is right, of course, more right than I am willing to admit.

Midnight is the most exciting thing that has ever come into my life. I couldn't give her up, even if I had a choice, which I didn't.

The one thing that Time is overlooking is Midnight's stubborn disposition. When she makes up her mind, there is nothing, mortal or deity, that can detour her course. My destiny has already been delicately placed within her hands, making her mother's temper tantrum seem all the more ridiculous.

"This is no way for future-in-laws to talk, is it?" I wish Midnight was here to protect me.

"To answer your question, I will have a fruit juice, any fruit juice, you do have fruit juice, don't you?"

I start to make a rather hilarious remark about Time's taste for strange nectar, but hold my tongue, instead. Time has this incredible reputation for being easily offended. The whole situation becomes one great big psychodramatic scene after another. Midnight running out the door, always in a hurry, never staying longer than an hour, and promising to return with a kiss.

And now this! Her mother stalking up and down my pitiful cell, glaring unspeakable insinuations. I can easily see where Midnight has acquired her beauty and her stubborn temper. Time is a very enchanting woman, with flowing hair that seemed to change color, depending on the light. For a hesitant breath, I become enticed with the similarities, both in the face, and in their walk. I am reminded of my first encounter with Midnight.

It was much earlier than when this story first began, I was traveling by bus from Los Angeles to Las Vegas, though the horrible Purgatory depths of desert, right around the middle of July. It was 110 boiling degrees, no matter if you were standing in the shade, or pitch black, so I was keeping to the darkness as much as possible, just so I didn't have to watch myself sweat.

We had just passed through Barstow, that Nowhere Man's island of a truck stop and post office, when we came upon an accident in the middle of the highway. I could tell it was a pretty ugly mess, because were several blanket-covered bodies strewn across the road.

I had become very acquainted with Death. He visited quite regularly. I like to watch people meeting Death for the first time. They always seem so surprised that they recognize him, on the first glance. Over one almost endless winter, Death had coerced my parents, pet rabbit, and three best friends to join his mailing list.

So this night in the desert wasn't that shocking. Death was one of my closest companions. We had become very attached to each other's company. As soon as Midnight appeared, I knew something had to change. You see, Death and Midnight were meant to be married. A real match made in heaven, if you know what I mean. Time had made some kind of deal, long before Midnight was ever conceived, to marry her off to Death. Time and Death have been partners-in-crime, friends, lovers, and acquaintances, for as long as anyone could remember.

It was on that long and dusty trip through the desert that Death introduced me to Midnight. I fell in love with her upon first sight. Death became angry at our obviously mutual attraction. I could not take my eyes off of her for an instant without feeling hopelessly lonely. Somehow, I knew that I had been enchanted by a goddess.

This appearance by Time, in the middle of my night, comes at a very strange place in my life. Midnight is beginning to wander further and further away from me. We weren't quite seeing eye to eye, Midnight and I. In fact, I am seeing less and less of her. Time seems to be winning, in her attempts to terrorize our private heaven. I could not for the life of me figure out what to do with Midnight.

Having prepared Time her juice, I resume my posture on the bed. We stare at one another for a day or two. She doesn't say anything. I don't want to disturb sleeping Silence, but Time begins again.

"I have bigger and better intentions for Midnight than you can ever imagine. She has much higher expectations than you can fulfill. You ought to know that. I'm surprised you haven't realized how demanding she can be, when she wants to."

"There aren't any disguises between Midnight and I. She has told me a great deal about you, and the reasons why it is impossible that we remain together. She even told me to be prepared for this visit."

"My daughter has no idea how much self-control it is taking me not to have you turned to ash, right here. You are a very unfavorable influence on her. There are so many ways that I can make your life into a living hell."

"I'm sure you didn't come here to maim threats. Why are you gracing my humble space with your presence? What's the deal? Come on, show me your cards so we can get down to business."

The tequila is reversing its coarse. My mood changes into a raging intoxicated boldness. I am feverish. Hot to the touch. Scared.

Time is very selective with her words. I have trouble understanding her, at first.

"I insist that you stop seeing my daughter."

"Insist all that you would like. Midnight can always find me, and I can always find her."

"Not if I get to her, first."

"You obviously don't know where she is, if you come storming in here, demanding to see her. This isn't a contest over her affections. You seem to be very jealous of the attention she has been receiving. Please, don't threaten me. I have enough on you to publish a great book of stories about you. How would you like that? A grand expose on the affairs of Time!"

"You wouldn't dare." Time is looking a little uncomfortable. I can see that she is upset with what I have said. Silence begins one of his slow dances through the room. We measure one another's words, and stares. Uneasy, I move to the floor, and begin to pace. Time spreads herself out fully on my cot. She looks tired. I watch her for a long while, until she begins to fade away into the shadows of this cell.

"Midnight, won't you come back to me, where you belong?"

It is almost that Time of night, my sweet Midnight.

(3 October 93)

Stop Reminding Me That I Hate You

http://razeeink.wordpress.com/2009/09/17/stop-reminding-me-that-i-hate-you/ (via shareaholic)

 The day that my spirit animal left me

she disconnected

stopped saying anything

terror came home and made herself comfortable

The signs say go home and be miserable

and you are already home.

There are no more promises to keep

I think you told me about my serving

an ultimate and intimate resolution.

I never said that I couldn’t be there for you

I never said that I would be there for you.

All of these promises never kept

this year has been a lie and a worry

about pregnancy and hypocrisy.

Nightmares never leave, they just gain character.


I hate you for loving me this much

I wish you had let go

a long time ago.

Anyway, I thought that I would call

scream a few times out of the window.

I always remind me of everything that makes you.

Be well, all covered in skin and promises

I never lied because you are never old enough.


Tears drip sand promises never kept

if there is anything that I wish

I did not have to show you

I know that there is one thing-

another kiss could have been a promise.

Bubblegum promises fed on corn and a bigger city

calamity is not so difficult to speel 

if you are a bee or a cast

spell maker.

No absolutes that I could mean

get any better

you be you

and I love you more.


The mourning bells are singing worldwide

today, there is nothing better to do than die.

I will never do anything bad again.

Promises promises and all you keep are letters

left behind in the carry-on compartment

of your heart and other emotional baggage.

Spitwads are not free speech.

Say you love me like you mean it.

I hate you anyway.


The adventure has become bothersome,

with the cannibalization and pontification

of sorrow and the loss

that comes with destroying the love of your life.

She will participate in a couple Take Back the Night parades,

and he will write a few poems.

Everything will go back to where it was

before and after the events look like each other.

Passion stopped being worth the discourse

about 100 broken hearts ago.

Stop making excuses

you like it, you bastard

You thrive on it.

Stop reminding me that I hate you.

No Promises « dia-BLOG-ical on wordpress

http://razeeink.wordpress.com/2009/09/15/no-promises/ (via shareaholic)

There are no promises about sex. I told you that!

Scrubbing out the museum of lost love lives, we realized that you were the pinball queen acid wizard. Our promise is spelled out like this: Teethmark Clever Envy, and a slice of pie, oven baked, once a week. A Circus has no Chains. Sleeping in the hammock of your cobweb-haired Dragqueen Cowboy, you find yourself secure, locked in the safe behind the painting, hanging in the library.

The porn star and the political satirist meet for drinks in a dark bar with Grateful Dead posters and photographs of hippies on the wall. They order Sancho’s Broken Arrow Amber Ale, because they are two-for-one during Happy Hour, 4:20 to 6 in the evening. 420 is the police code for marijuana possession. The date today is four-twenty. Earth Day. Save the planet day, and smoke-out day. How leftist is that? Smoke some grass and pick up a pile of trash. The cat has their tongues.


 It started out as a nighttime picnic and ended with her handcuffed to the hood of a 1965 Ford Mustang named Buttercup. Budget Rent-a-Car should have reimbursed her for polishing the hood with her ass. The news is belching full with mass graves named Jenin, and the marches upon the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa federal government buildings in protest of the wars. Revolution is dancing in the streets of Kabul, Caracas, and the District of Columbia, today.

 Father Phil U. Rupp is a Catholic priest who is also a part-time pedophile. He fits right into the middle of The Root of All Evil. What are the chances that Chad Dangling and Dwight Twilight are the same person? The mystery deepens. How is the text a feminist treatise on women and pornography? What makes the story a politically charged satire of the world-at-large? His pussy runs frantically around the small room, while he begins to take charge of his thoughts. He thinks about the packages that left his hands on Thursday, and wonders about the backlash that will follow. Will he be ignored? No comment. Will anyone have anything critical to say? Who will be the first one to shoot him down from his high of independent publishing, today?

 It is called nonviolent civil disobedience. You must not fight back. Turn the other cheek. Father Phil knows all about turning the other cheek for the ecstasy in the Rectory. XTC is a drug that should not be allowed in the hands of children, pedophile priests, or other madmen. I baptize thee in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, Amen. If you masturbate, God will kill a kitty!

Touch it, baby. Break down my promises. Prep me for your punch it in. Stroke me slowly on your words, embroidered on your training bra. What is the definition of right and wrong? I am too embarrassed, but not too nervous to deal with it. Do you ever remember what you mean when you are saying things from the beyond? I hate you. I love you. You are not perfect unless I say so. You hate me more that I could ever love you. How does it feel? Suck. Suck. Suck. The gears of the machine are chasing you, telling you that there is no escape. Give up and stop fighting it. Resistance is fertile.

 The procession walks slowly through the rain, their wooden burden slacking the pace up the hill. There is little regard for the pallbearers. Death visits your home and you are left wondering if there is something else left to be said. Tomorrow, I will not be happy that you are dead. Don’t disturb us any more. Alice, have you come to ease my pain? Am I worthy of your bath? I don’t know, but I guess so. I am looking for a moment’s interruption in the new direction. The Northwest Flying Typewriters are coming to a city near you! Pull up on the highway of Lies for a little powwow, right in the middle of the interstate avenue. She has sugarcoated lips, which are so sweet to kiss. I can be your backdoor man, baby. Just place me on the pedestal and I promise to stay. If you could see yourself now, baby, your secret life hiding your possessions. Pseudo Romeo mourns the death of Alice in Chains, while the rest of us know that Alive means more than Alice. Bury your burning cross in somebody else’s yard, Cowboy. I used to get punked and bullied on my block, until I cut a kid’s head off, and stuck it in his mailbox.

Devi ki Jaya

Razee howls as the clear flame bursts forth in front of the Mother, the whole congregation rises and shouts "Devi ki Jaya" (Victory to the Goddess). Then Razee takes the tray and, balancing it on his head, dances slowly with long swinging stride around the Mother, while the music bursts out with renewed vigor, urging the others, the human tabernacles of the deities, to follow suit. Thereafter the chocolate cake is handed around to both women and men in turn, who plunge their hands in the ashes and smear their faces with them; and so, after distribution of the offering of Pepsi, Camel Filters, and Dundee Pale Ale, the celebration closes. A few girls still dance and jerk their shining bodies before the altar, but Razee who is getting weary touches them with his hands, commanding the frenzy to cease, and with a sigh they withdraw one by one into the dark shadows of the palm-grove.

What does it signify?

It appears that according to Bhandari belief the disease is the outcome of neglect of the Mother. The present conditions of life in the cramped and festering bowels of the city, the long hours of work necessitated by higher rentals and even higher standard of living, leave her devotees but little leisure for her worship. She is maddened by neglect and in revenge she slays her ten or fifteen in a night. Yet is she not by nature cruel. Fashion for her a pleasant shrine, flower-decked, burn incense before her, beat the drum in her honor, let the women offer themselves as the sport and play-thing of her madness and of a surety will she repent her of the evil she hath done and will stay the slaughter.

In spirit-parlance a woman chosen by the spirit, into whom as into a shrine the Mother enters, is known as a "Jhad" or tree: for just as a tree yields rustling and quivering to the lightest breath of the gale, bends its head and moves its branches to and fro, so the women, losing all consciousness of self, play as the breath of the Mother stirs them, quivering beneath her gentler gusts, bending their bodies and tossing their arms beneath the stronger blasts, and casting themselves low with bowed heads and streaming hair as the full force of the storm enwraps them. They are in very truth as trees shaken by the wind.

Old School Vinyl

I have a bit of a financial emergency raising its ugly head. Is anyone interested, or know of anyone who is interested in vinyl music? I have a player, and several records, including a limited edition yellow vinyl Joy Division, some Ministry, Savage Republic, Coil, and other old school recordings. Also, a reel-to-reel with attached speakers. Please let me know if you or anyone else would be interested, ASAP. HELP!


Support Gay Marriage

Dear friend,

After a lot of years of devastating setbacks in the fight for marriage equality, it seems like we're finally moving in the right direction. With marriage legal in Massachusetts, Connecticut, Iowa, Vermont and Maine, and the fights going strong in New Hampshire, New York and California, this movement is gaining more momentum every day, and I'm excited to be a part of it.

To that end, I wanted to let you know that CREDO Action is giving away some awesome stickers about supporting gay marriage - I think you'd really like them. I just got mine - if you have a minute, click this link to check out the stickers and get one of your own (for free!).



The Frail Closet, an exploration into where we keep our secrets.

Razee Inkwell

Posted using ShareThis

The Abuse Cycle of a Nation

It is interesting to compare my personal abuse with that of those tortured for secrets, and Homeland Insecurity.

From the May 10, 2005 memo signed by Steven G. Bradbury, principal Deputy Assistant Attorney General "In a 'prototypical interrogation,' the detainee begins his first interrogation session stripped of his clothes, shackled, and hooded, with the walling collar over his head and around his neck... The interrogators remove the hood and explain that the detainee can improve his situation by cooperating and may say that the interrogators 'will do what it takes to get important information.' ... As soon as the detainee does anything inconsistent with the interrogators' instructions, the interrogators use an insult slap or abdominal slap. They employ walling if it becomes clear that the detainee is not cooperating in the interrogation. This sequence 'may continue for several more iterations as the interrogators continue to measure the [detainee's] resistance posture and apply a negative consequence to [his resistance efforts.]'... The interrogators and security officers then put the detainee into position for standing sleep deprivation, begin dietary manipulation through a liquid diet, and keep the detainee nude (except for a diaper). The first interrogation session, which could have lasted from 30 minutes to several hours, would then be at an end."

Razee Art on Artwanted

Call For Submissions

Electronic Quiver: Call for Submissions
Electronic Quiver: Winter Issue
Call for Submissions

Electronic Quiver, the quarterly print publication from Razee Ink, is looking for submissions for its winter issue on the theme "Choke: The Effects of PTSD". We are accepting submissions of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and art on the theme of PTSD, the anti-war movement, and general radical/left-wing politics and activism. A diversity of viewpoints and perspectives is welcome and encouraged; we are interested in seeing work by queer, feminist, PoC, and other minority voices.

Payment is in copies, as we are a small, membership-funded organization.

Deadline: November 9, 2007

Please email submissions to the editor, D. J. Razee, razee@razee.com . Be sure to specify that you are sending a submission for EQ in the subject line.

This Revolution Will Be Televised

This second video from Razee-TV is a statement about war and censorship in the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa.

RazeeWear on CafePress

Electronic Quiver is Here!

Get Your Quiver Together Forever Autumn Wear

September 25, 2006

Featured Product

Electronic Quiver Hooded Sweatshirt


In This Issue:

  1. RazeeWear Sweatshirt Time of Year
  2. Also, Do Not Forget

1. RazeeWear Sweatshirt Time of Year

Step over here and purchase a nice Electronic Quiver sweatshirt from Razee Ink and Razee-TV, just in time for autumn.

Link: http://www.cafepress.com/razeeink

2. Also, Do Not Forget

That you need a pair of boxers, teddy bear, and thong that match!

Link: http://www.cafepress.com/razeeink

Thank you, and as always, we appreciate your business.

Visual Orphans, Vol. 2., Iss. 15

The new issue of Visual Orphans has arrived!
Check us out at http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html

I have neither mother nor father
to pity my sorrow.
I am an orphan.
All alone I bear torment and disgrace
in the depths of my soul.
Such was the pain
of not finding a good woman
who would fill this great void,
which they left behind,
with tender love."
-- When Frida Kahlo was in Paris, Pablo Picasso taught her this song, which she often sang for Diego Rivera or for friends. It is called El Huérfano (The Orphan).
Until now is then,
D. J. Razee, Esq.
Razee Ink
Purchase your Razee Ink merchandise at Cafepress
NOTICE: Due to Presidential Executive Orders, the National Security Agency may have read this email without warning, warrant, or notice.
They may do this without any judicial or legislative oversight. You have no recourse nor protection save to call for the impeachment of the current President.

Visual Orphans, Vol. 2, Iss. 14

The new issue of Visual Orphans has arrived!
Check us out at http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html 

I have neither mother nor father
to pity my sorrow.
I am an orphan.
All alone I bear torment and disgrace
in the depths of my soul.
Such was the pain
of not finding a good woman
who would fill this great void,
which they left behind,
with tender love."
-- When Frida Kahlo was in Paris, Pablo Picasso taught her this song, which she often sang for Diego Rivera or for friends. It is called El Huérfano (The Orphan).

Happy Anniversary, ShameriKKKa

As the fifth anniversary of the September Eleventh tragedy quickly approaches, the question remains. Do you feel any more protected from terrorism, now that we are fighting wars on several fronts? Do you feel that we have justified our presence in Afghanistan and Iraq? Waging war to prevent terrorism is like putting out a fire with gasoline. After all war is terrorism with a larger budget. Saddam Hussein's trial plays on in the kangaroo court of our own construction, and Osama Bin Forgotten is still at large. This administration is searching for Osama Bin Forgotten, like O. J. Simpson is looking for the real killers. Meanwhile, the citizens of these Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa are illegally wiretapped, and strip-searched while standing in line at security checkpoints in the airport. The greatest superpower to ever rule the planet is failing miserably, and it is beginning to become evident to everyone. What is that saying that they used during the Vietnam War about winning over the hearts and minds of the population? Insurgency and dissent in Iraq is at its highest point since the invasion.

War, what is it good for? Absolutely nothing, except oil, money, and political gain. Arguably, the American government has been in a state of war with the Iraqi people since Desert Storm. For a seventeen-year-old Iraqi, life has been entirely comprised of war, bombing, and political unrest. If you add together the victims of the September Eleventh tragedy with the casualty counts of Iraq and Afghanistan, has there been enough killing for you? The world will never know how many innocent women and children have been murdered and deemed collateral damage in these wars. Meanwhile, our streets and homeless shelters fill with the wounded soldiers without limbs and hope for the future. Hey, buddy, can you spare some change? May I wash your windshield for a few cents?

The midterm elections, shortly after the anniversary of September Eleventh, should reflect how the population feels about our foreign policy. Is there an exit strategy being offered by any of the candidates, or will business continue as usual? It is pretty evident that there is no such plan on the table, and we will continue to send our boys and girls into the battlefields. There is discussion of placing more troops into the melee, which rings a familiar tune for those of us who understand Lyndon Johnson's position during Vietnam. There are some who argue that the war movement needs to advance into Iran, because they desire nuclear power and microwave ovens. Maybe they will use the weapons of mass destruction that the Martians impounded from Iraq against the western world, right? The Martians are holding onto these weapons until they can find a good buyer, after all. Meanwhile, oil prices have skyrocketed higher than most aircraft. Yet, no one has parked their SUV, or begun to carpool. Maybe people are afraid to step up and ask the difficult questions. Maybe the spindoctoring and propaganda has worked, or most likely, people are simply too ignorant or stubborn to care.

The American people fail to utilize privilege fully in service of conscience. Over two thirds of the human rights violations in the world today are a direct result of resource extraction. To put it bluntly, we are collectively killing the planet and ourselves because we are not doing enough for each other and the Goddess, our home, good old Mama Earth. We are not using our resources and our altruistic genes efficiently and intelligently. We have forgotten who we are, neglected to challenge the status quo, and creating our own permanent undoing. The time has come for new ideas, and new strategies. As a nation at the forefront of the technological revolution, it is supremely important that America lead by example. The American people need to remember that the consent of the governed involves making difficult choices and a great many sacrifices. It is time to declare peace, instead of war, with ourselves, with others, and with our home. Simply put, we need to protect the living, and honor the dead. Silence equals complicity.

I Tried to Tell Her

She asked me what I was thinking

I tried to tell her
Of dying flesh breathing
Of illusionary beings only pretending life
Of dark alleys full of bad ass lies
Of toyguns and handcuffs

I tried to tell her
Of god and the beast
Of pop culture junk talk
Of needle razor sharp crystal awareness
Of post-acid delusions and devastation
Of nuclear nihilism blood streets chanting
Of pornographic hardons naked innocent flesh
Of virgin blood soaking deep into pores

I tried to tell her
Of the garden of dreams
Of Death's cruel vivid imagination
Of vampyres rabid in climax
Of snakes copulating in thornbush
Of wet sticky jism on your chin and my clammy hands
Of the heartache that never goes away
Of blind children playing through my mind
Of spraypaint art musk
Of every white wall pissed on

I tried to tell her
Of the center of the universe
Of the point
Of the I
Of yesterday
Of duality salt and pepper
Of the ultimate penis
Of power and energy without the bills
Of order in chaos
Of Pan's pawn
Of cutting arms off with Karmic Chainsaws

I tried to tell her
Of living and dying, not just posing
Of chocolate princesses and rain goddess drowned
Of the raven mocking stupid cousin crows
Of everybody dying in suicide
Of dead as in shed of skin
Of flowers from a graveyard

I tried to tell her
Of words stomped into splinters
Of sweating profusely as blood cakes up to the elbows
Of the City for Gods lying in dust shit waste
Of chains to earthly hell
Of smokering forms in Time
Of content full space
Of drumbeat echoes of a soul
Of restless sleep eternal
Of animal sacrifice red wine plastic arches golden

I tried to tell her
Of nothing
Of "i don't know"

I tried to tell her
but she could not hear.

(May 1988)

The Right to (Not) Bear Arms

In 1925, Adolph Hitler in Mein Kampf wrote "Through clever and constant application of propaganda, people can be made to see Paradise as Hell, and also the other way around, to consider the most wretched sort of life as Paradise." At the same time, George Orwell was writing about the Thoughtpolice and Big Brother. Today, we are living in the best of both worlds, it would seem.

While 95% of the world's religion practicing deity-fearing population is comprised of peace-loving, gentle and compassionate beings, it is apparent that it is the remaining five percent is interested in propagating war and distrust, a hostility for "the Other." In many cases, this religious fanaticism has consumed the leadership of nation-states, including the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa. As Baptist churches are being burned down on a daily basis in Alabama, Dutch embassies throughout the world are present subject to mass protests and firestorms of unrest instigated by cartoons depicting Muhammad as a terrorist.

The time for change, particularly in terms of perspective, is upon us. Think of it, this way- In consideration of the recent conviction of several Catholic priests for sexually assaulting minors, the Catholic Church has announced that Jesus Christ was a full-fledged child molester. For those of us that have read The DaVinci Code, expect to be sent to Hell in a wheelbarrow. It is simple to see how the perception of Truth becomes distorted in the mirror reflection of The Other.

As the Iraq Coalition Casualties quickly nears the numbers lost in the September Eleventh tragedy, the time for recollection, and reconciliation becomes of supreme importance. It is time that the ninety-five percent of the world to stand up and stop the hostility and hatred that fuels the continual unrest between belief systems. It is time for the human race to turn to each other with understanding, compassion and respect. The time has come for us to gather together as one race (after all, differentiating race is a social construct) and resolve our differences and celebrate our similarities.

We live together in this backlash of fear, cloistered in our belief systems and afraid of our own shadows. On a daily basis, we suffer through the repercussions and reverberations of witnessing the continual unrest and propaganda-based fabrications of war. While it may be too late for the fanatically religious warmongers and terrorists to understand a world that thrives on peace and understanding, it is in the better interest of Humanity to retain a firm grip on our collective unity. To put it simply, knowledge is power, and understanding is divine.

Ask yourself, instead of what makes you different from your neighbors, what you have in common. Bake an American pie and take it next door to your neighbors. Possibly, they will share some of their stone soup, instead of casting those same stones at the glass houses that we all call our home. We can only pray that our dear Mother Earth will forgive us for our digressions and, at least up until now, our bad cooking. As you are reading this missive, turn your perspective inward and ask yourself if you would like to starve on your power-corrupted selfishness and greed, or if you would prefer to break bread with your preconceived enemy of trust. I leave you with this thought from the Qur'an- "They said 'You are nothing but human beings like ourselves. The All-Merciful has not sent down anything. You are simply lying.' (Ya Sin 14-16)

Visual Orphans, Volume Two, Issue Nine

Visual Orphans, Volume Two, Issue Nine

The new issue of Visual Orphans has arrived! Check us out at http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html

"Congratulations! You have Even Offended Me!"

Thank you, Cactus Jack, for proving that you are the biggest lying bastard New World Order totalitarian on the planet. We commend you on your stammering and stuttering through one minute of acknowledging Mrs. Coletta King. Then, you spent 53 more minutes spewing hate and Big Brother doublespeakgood propaganda, while your Thoughtpolice were rushing in and tearing a dead soldier's mother from her seat. As an invited guest to your grand party of lies, Cindy Sheehan was removed because she might have been wearing a T-shirt that offended your sensibilities and concentration spinning lies. Tears well up into our eyes, sir. We realize that you and your Blackboots are raping the best part of America, our truth and our dignity. Shame on you, sir. You are too frightened to accept and admit the reality that you have made a fatal mistake that has now cost 2500 Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKan soldiers and 274,956 collaterally damaged Iraqi families of their children, wives, and husbands. Even your father could not make this many people cry, tonight. At what cost do you sleep, tonight, sir? If you had any sort of a soul, or any sensitivity for America's blood, you would be ashamed of yourself. While you stuff your nose with Evangelical cocaine and slobber down Enron whiskey-we ask you, do you really care about what happens to the rest of the world, or is this some sort of drunken enticed comedy act for you and your buddy, Hal I. Burton? As you pack the Supreme Court full of kangaroos, do you ever wonder who will pay for your evil deeds? We can only hope that your nieces are out of drug rehabilitation long enough for us to elect them into the Oral Orifice long enough that they will make a "Girls Gone Wild on D.C." porn movie to pay for your deceit. Where is your $200 billion dollar promise to Katrina, tonight, sir?
As for the mourning mother that you had arrested, do you recall how you could not meet her outside your Texas ranch, while you were riding around on your bicycle with your Ipod buds in your ears? She was the one with the big tent of supporters along the road to your house. Do you mean to say that you cannot stand for her to be in your big house of idiots and lies, as well? Clearly, sir, you owe this woman an apology. She scares you, doesn't she? The truth hurts when you are a Little Prince liar. She should scare you. We all scare you. We are America, and you are nothing but an afterthought waiting to happen. Welcome home to these Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa. Let us remind you that we saw you coming with Mr. Orwell's book. Keep sending the Thoughtpolice. We will still be here. The version that Cindy has written can be found here:

Cindy Sheehan: What Really Happened

Visual Orphans, Volume 2, Issue 8

The new issue of Visual Orphans has arrived! Check us out at http://www.razee.com/VisualOrphans/orphans.html

I have neither mother nor father
to pity my sorrow.
I am an orphan.
All alone I bear torment and disgrace
in the depths of my soul.
Such was the pain
of not finding a good woman
who would fill this great void,
which they left behind,
with tender love.
-- When Frida Kahlo was in Paris, Pablo Picasso taught her this song, which she often sang for Diego Rivera or for friends. It is called El Huerfano(The Orphan).

Alone Under the Viaduct

Alone Under the Viaduct

A change of identity,
after being beaten down in an art gallery on Broadway,
then sitting down on the curb,
somewhere between 7-11 and The Composition Department
leaving behind my recently purchased at K-mart
ten dollar camouflage fanny pack,
credit cards, driver's license, pager and tools.

A few blocks later, I parked the shopping cart
that I had been pushing home,
against a building, so I could go find my fanny pack
leaving behind a 12-pack of Pepsi,
a Snickers candy bar, Ben and Jerry's Wavy Gravy
my notebook, mailing and telephone lists.

I wandered around the West Side for two hours
searching for my two piles of belongings
and the other side of my face.
Found myselves in Denny's
washing off my face, and thanking the gods
that I still had a right eye.
Took a taxi back to the Composition Department
broke out my dysfunctioning Chevy
from its hiding place
and drove around looking some more.

Despite the black eye, I went to Chicago on the train
meeting nine people from cyberspace, in person.
New year, new image
single and solitary
after the restraining orders
and a night spent in Denver General's psychiatric ward.

Doubled my space, when we divorced,
doubled it again when the Broncos won the Super Bowl.
I claimed more property from the slumlord
and stopped paying rent.
It is called the Breeze Way
an alley between buildings, really
with three rafts, a refrigerator,
abandoned filing cabinets,
and somebody else's junk inside.
Here I am, alone, under the viaduct.

Suicide, Homicide, and a Side of Fries

Ghost stories start with Once upon a time. There is a cold breeze crawling up my soul. This is our season for standing still. There is a ghost bound for my soul. Her tongue is on fire and the heavens are clawing at her soul. Her hair is a cocaine clown, full of masques of rage and bubblegum screams. We are making up commercials of need, everyday, to the nth power.

This story includes homicide, suicide, and if you are lucky, a side of fries. Crying is blackmail. The King of Stupors walks in and belches the Star-Spangled Banner, stroking his cock, and staring at all the pretty girls with a hungry look.

"The problem is you're a perfectionist. You don't always have to be totally evil. Sometimes. it is okay to just be annoying."

He choked on his own loin cloth, our Tarzan, and forgot the name of his Jane. Back in high school, it was easier to be a bitch, even as a guy. So Tarzan took on a lover named Captain Suicide, who had big bubbles of air for breasts and lied through her teeth to keep them clean. Tomorrow, it becomes autumn again, and no one noticed. Then, the magazine was published. Nursing salty wounds galore, our antihero was distracted. There is not much chance of not hearing the door slam, a few times. Cheetah is a monkey. We laugh, as the confusion begins. Left alone in the woods with nothing to do but antagonize Tarzan, we had not tried to change anything for twenty years. If old age does not kick your ass, New Age certainly will.

"It is healthy, I suppose. Dragging our testicles through the underbrush and trying to teach our mothers to drum. We found ourselves in Toxic City, and we made our firstborn the Mayor."

"Please decide for me. Who is the enemy? Two years later, I was so drunk that I forgot my crimes. I was heading to Santa Fe, anyway."

"Give up needing the weapons of privilege, and I will stop making them."

"Yeah, happily ever is today," she says with a mischievous smile taking over tomorrow and yesterday. "Turn off the heartache because I am not looking for an earthquake named after you."

You are my trial and my child. Did I mention that we were running for president? Insert giggles now. Happily ever after lasts until today. I want to hide behind a wall of fog and name it after you.

A little more to the left, and we won't look back. We are a promise left unkept. Dark and sticky, our explanations are going small and difficult to discern from the buzz of the chainsaw. I feel the tickle for you in my toes, Electronic Quiver. Tomorrow, we will say what yesterday was about. A pretty picture stands up from the desert. We will see you around the playfrown, princess.

"Can't you hear me beyond the cloaking and croaking." "You have a frog caught in your throat?" She looks up from the kitchen floor, a pool of blood rolling pretty pictures along the tiles underneath her. She begins to smile.

"It is so cold that I can't feel my fingers touching your face," she says as she drifts away. This is the prison that we call our home.

Bedtime for Gonzo

Dramatist On Crack

The dramatist, on crack, asks "Excuse me, is the Poet in? Is the Gothic Hippie peacenik home?"
"I am sorry, but he is not here, right now. May I take a message?"
"I have left messages for that crazy bastard, for a week of Sundays. Do you know when you will be expecting him, by any chance?"
"He is due to arrive in the office, any moment, sir," the sweet-tasting receptionist purrs. "I will be happy to take your name and number, so he can return your call."
"I just told you that the son-of-a-bitch wasn't returning my calls," he screams into the telephone.
"There is no reason for you to use that kind of language, sir."
"You have a great voice, what do you look like?"
"Sir, if you would like to leave your name and number, I will make sure that my employer gets the message."
"What if I wanted to give you my name and number, instead of him? Would you ever call me?"
"I have decided to not be a food, today," she retorts.
"She sniffed my leg, licked it and backed off. I told her to go to Hell and bring me back some color. My skeleton is a sketchbook for all of the suffering that I have seen, piled like clothes, my skin hangs over it, wrinkled and stained. She doesn't scare me anymore. Are you sure that you do not want to go out with me? I just love a pout in a short skirt. Angels are hot, I always want to have sex with them."
Eliza GoodWord Feelright disconnects the call, and looks out of the window at the rushhour traffic splashing and dashing by.

[starhawk] Rafah songs and stories

Hello friends. It’s spring here in Northern California, hundreds of daffodils are in bloom on my land, and the bees are humming in the fruit trees and the rosemary. But I’’m thinking about two young people who won’t see the beauty of this spring, or any other. We’re approaching the anniversary of Rachel Corrie’s death, on March 16, 2003, trying to stop a home demolition in Rafah. My brother, Mark Simos, and I have written two songs in honor of her and Tom Hurndall, who was shot a few weeks later. He has posted downloadable MP3s on his website, www.songsofconscience.com, which you are welcome to copy, play, and share for noncommercial purposes. To give you a context for the songs, I’m also including a story I wrote about my experiences in Rafah, which is below. Below that is Mark’s own note about his website. And below that, is information on the event here in the Bay Area on March 16, where I’ll be speaking along with Julia Butterfly and many others. My friend Evelie Posch will be singing one or both of the songs. It’s a benefit for the International Solidarity Movement, so please come if you can. The story below will also be published in the upcoming issue of the Reclaiming Quarterly www.reclaimingquarterly.org. I hope these songs can help us remember the courage and grace of Tom and Rachel, and inspire us to do the work that can bring about true justice and peace in that land. Starhawk

The Price of an Orange
For Rachel Corrie and Tom Hurndall
By Starhawk

I am writing this as we approach the anniversary of two murders. And I find myself thinking about an orange, a ghost orange, growing on a branch on a ghost tree that no longer stands in the courtyard of a home crushed to bloodstained rubble. In Rafah, the border town that lies on the dusty frontier where Gaza meets Egypt. A place of cement tenements pockmarked with bullet holes, streets choking in dust and smashed concrete, barbed wire and fences and sniper towers, where Rachel and Tom died, like so many of the Palestinians they had come to stand with in solidarity.
In March of 2003 Rachel Corrie was killed as she was trying to stop an Israeli soldier from demolishing a home. The bulldozer driver saw her, and deliberately ran over her. She was twenty-three years old.
Just a few weeks later, an Israeli soldier firing from a sniper tower shot Tom as he was trying to save some children who were under fire. After nine long months in what the doctors call a “vegetative state”, his body breathing but his mind and brain destroyed, Tom died in mid January, just a day after his mother whispered in his ear that his murderer had finally been arrested. He was just twenty-two.
Tom and Rachel were not unique in dying in Rafah. Palestinians are killed every day. When they died, the toll already stood at more than 250 dead in Rafah alone since the beginning of the intifada, more than 50 of them children. Now the count must be much higher. The same day Rachel died, Akhmed, a fifty year old street sweeper who lived with his mother, went out to sit on his stoop and smoke a cigarette. The soldiers gunned him down, for no particular reason, and his death made no international headlines, caused no controversy, evoked no words of condemnation from a shocked world.
The children Tom was trying to save were playing on a mound of dirt on the border, a zone of rubble and razor wire, half demolished homes and dirt piles and walls riddled with shell holes. A barren zone of scraped earth where tanks prowl at night and death comes whizzing out of the air from an unseen source. And yet, because of the danger and the emptiness and the destruction, the area right along the border has a sense of wilderness, of spaciousness, of being at the edge of something, like the sea.
The children of Rafah cannot play by the sea, which lies just a few miles away. In fact, there is nothing much to play with in Rafah, no playgrounds, no swimming pools, no swings or slides or climbing bars.
So the children in Rafah are bored and infected with the restless unease of children whose lives and homes and families are constantly being shot away all around them. They run in packs. They follow strangers and mob you if you stand still. They all seem to know only one English phrase, “What’s your name?” and they call it after you, over and over again. If you ignore them they will gain your attention by lobbing a few stones at you. If you make the mistake of stopping, you are soon surrounded, groped and patted and poked by small hands as voices cry, “What’s your name? What’s your name?” until you think you will go mad.
In the few days Tom spent in Rafah he must have been plagued many times by these children. Nonetheless, when he saw a group of them crying in terror as bullets ricocheted around them, he acted instinctively to save them, running in under the fire from the sniper tower to rescue a small boy, going back after two little girls trapped on the wrong side of the mound. The sniper lowered his sites, and put a bullet in Tom’s brain. Under interrogation, the soldier first lied, claiming Tom was armed and firing at him. Later he admitted that he knew Tom was an unarmed civilian. He says he did it deliberately, as a ‘deterrent’.
I went down to Rafah after Rachel was killed to support the team who was with her, most of whom were so young that they had never experienced a death of someone close to them. I went back again after Tom was shot, to support the team that was with him, many of whom had also been with Rachel. We agonized about just which picture to put on Rachel’s martyr poster, held a press conference after Tom’s death, tried to regroup and figure out how to go on. At night we continued to sleep in homes that were at risk of being bulldozed, hoping our presence would be some slight deterrence to the soldiers, or that we could intercede with them if they came, or if nothing else, bear witness.
I stayed mostly at Abu Akhmed’s home. He was a farmer, who grew olives. His groves were destroyed by the soldiers, and he had only a few trees left. Each night he sat in the small, cement-enclosed courtyard in front of his home, making a small fire in a tin can, brewing tea for us and the visitors who would stop by to smoke and gossip, as men have talked around the fire since the days of Abraham, father of both the Arabs and the Jews. Around that fire, the concrete and the bullets, the tanks and the shellfire, the warren of refugee tenements and the rubble filled streets seemed just a thin overlay on an older pattern of life. Look through the shell holes at just the right angle, and you might catch a glimpse of an ancient Rafah, a paradise of sun and orange groves, small farms and donkey carts laden with fruit and oil and flowers, where life went on much as it had since the beginning of time, and guestswere always welcome at the evening fire.
The house was strangely bare because all of the family’s important possessions had long been removed to safer places. Abu Akhmed’s sons stayed elsewhere—the border is too dangerous a place for young men who may be perceived to be fighters and so are at risk of being shot. But they would sneak back some evenings to join us around the fire. Abu Akhmed was old, but no older than my husband, I had to remind myself. He would tease me, saying, “Star, she Jewish—she kill you and me!” and then laugh and say, “No, Star, she good!” and discuss the possibility of finding me a husband locally, so that I might stay on in Rafah. The U.S. was bombing Iraq, troops were moving in toward Baghdad, and in the middle of the night he would often get up, turn the T.V on full blast, and yell back at the news. It was harder to sleep through than the gunshots and the periodic firing at the house, which I was used to. The room I slept in had had a big shell hole where the window was, that was now repaired. I suppose that was evidence that it was not safe, that another shell might come through in any of the nightly tank assaults. But I was grateful for the space, and the privacy, and the mat on the cement floor, and slept well whenever there was quiet to sleep in.

Some nights, I stayed at Abu Akhmed’s sister’s house. Abu Akhmed’s sister’s name is Sorari, and she is the grandmother. The house was a big, rambling farmhouse, with many rooms and a large kitchen and a long balcony across the front. Behind it was land that had been an olive grove before the soldiers bulldozed the trees. There were still a few trees left: a swath of olives and oranges and a pen for the chickens.

Not all of the rooms were usable: one had bullet holes through the front window and bullets lodged in the molding of the doors and Nahed was afraid to let the children sleep there. One had a huge shell hole through the wall and much of the floor: the children liked to play there because they could jump through the hole in the floor to the outside and they thought that was funny.

I remember clearly the first night I stayed there. They gave me the best bed, in a bedroom all to myself where normally Abu Ahkmed’s sister’s son Foad and his wife Nahed would sleep with the youngest children. Now Foad came to the house only for dinner, leaving before the night grew too dangerous. The mattress was covered in plastic, which crackled whenever I turned over in my sleep.

Nahed was beautiful as a Madonna, holding her children on her lap as they did their homework or cuddled up to watch TV as tanks shot at the house. The kids were so used to gunshots that they didn’t even notice. Joe, one of the team that had been with Rachel, was playing his guitar and singing, the kids were looking at my video camera and wanting me to take their pictures and play it back, all to a soundtrack of rifle fire that no one paid any attention to. Until the shots got loud and close, hitting the walls of the house. When the kids dove to the floor, I started to worry.
“This is bad,” Joe said. “It’s dangerous. Maybe we should do something.”
“What did you have in mind that we could do?” I asked.
“We could go out with a light and a bullhorn and tell them that there are Internationals here,” Joe suggested. “Are you comfortable with that?”
‘Comfortable’ isn’t the word I would have chosen. It was just over a week since Rachel Corrie was killed. We were hoping they wouldn’t kill us, too. I should have been afraid but I was actually not feeling much of anything at all, just a kind of deadly calm, in that dangerous, numb state when you can no longer discern whether a given act is brave or stupid. Joe picked up the light, a long flourescent lamp that runs on rechargeable batteries, and the bullhorn. We put on our high-visibility vests. Nahed, nervous, held the door for us. We stepped out into the courtyard, still protected by the concrete wall. I was holding the video camera. Cautiously, Joe pushed open the narrow, metal door, and stepsped out with the light on. I followed
“We are internationals!” he called out. “There are internationals in this house. And children. You are shooting at a house full of children.”
We waited for a moment. No one shot us. The tank rolled away, and we went back inside.

Nahed had a few orange and olive trees left in the back yard and the front courtyard, and chickens. Most of her land had been confiscated, the trees bulldozed. In the mornings, she served us eggs, telling us with pride that they were from her own birds. I would have loved to help her with her garden, or to learn from Sorari how to bake bread on the domed, clay oven in the yard, its design the same as models found in Neolithic burials. The kids played in the yard, when the tanks weren’t around, jumping in and out of the shellhole in the back room, making a game of it.
I stayed with them one more time, after Tom’s shooting. I had to leave early in the morning, to go back to Beit Sahour near Bethlehem for the meeting in which we would try to make sense of these murders and decide how to go on as an organization. I didn’t want to wake anyone, or take time for breakfast, but Sorari wouldn’t let me leave her house unfed. She got up, made me coffee, gave me some pita bread to eat. As we walked out, she paused in the courtyard to pick ripe oranges from her tree, and filled my pockets.
It was the simplest gesture, one every gardener knows, the slightly smug generosity that draws on nature’s bounty, the sense of wealth and pride at having so much that you can give without feeling any lack. Just so, if she had come to visit me, I might have handed her an apple or a plum, or sent her away with a small jar of my own apricot jam. A very ordinary gesture. Yet everything we were fighting for was in that gesture, in the simple dignity of a woman who stands on her own ground, who has something to offer, gifts to bestow, fruit from her own tree.

I left, and never returned. When I tried to go back, the borders were closed. One by one, the internationals who were there in Rafah were forced out or eventually had to leave. Laura stayed on, for ten months, but now even she is gone.
And the tanks and the bulldozers marched on. The house Rachel died trying to save is gone. Abu Akhmed’s house, Sorari’s house, the courtyards and the olive trees and the orange tree, all bulldozed into oblivion.
I carried those oranges for a long time, finally ate them on a long night’s bus ride back from the hospital in Haifa where I’d gone to visit Brian, the ISM volunteer who was shot in the face by soldiers in Jenin. They tasted sweet, so sweet they surprised me, as if all the sweetness of ordinary life were concentrated in that juice. All the stories Rachel will never write, all the pictures Tom will never take, all the moments of tenderness neither will ever know, all the undone homework of the children and the unbaked bread of the women reduced now to beggary and homelessness, all the unsung songs and unlived dreams of all the thousands of bloody martyrs in whose company Tom and Rachel now rest, who paid their lives as the price of an orange. A ghost orange, that has yet to be plucked from branches daily ripped from a tree that has maybe already been uprooted, or maybe has not yet been planted, cannot be planted until a flood of the world’s outrage cleanses this bloodstained, bitter ground.

www.starhawk.org <http://www.starhawk.org/>
Starhawk is an activist, organizer, and author of The Earth Path, of Webs of Power: Notes from the Global Uprising and eight other books on feminism, politics and earth-based spirituality. She teaches Earth Activist Trainings that combine permaculture design and activist skills, and works with the RANT trainer’s collective, www.rantcollective.net <http://www.rantcollective.net/> that offers training and support for mobilizations around global justice and peace issues. To get her periodic posts of her writings, email Starhawk-subscribe@lists.riseup.net and put ‘subscribe’ in the subject heading. If you’re on that list and don’t want any more of these writings, email Starhawk-unsubscribe@lists.riseup.net and put ‘unsubscribe’ in the subject heading.

Miss Hard Candy Saves the Sequoias

The windows open, she is singing me home a rainbow, and I
wished upon her star. Don't you remember that you told me that you
loved me, baby, says I ate my spleen, please, with a spoon.
Oh Those Voices! What is it with musicians and airplanes, anyway?
Oh my voices, I ate my spleen.....I dunno. I was just asking. Huh? Did
I miss something? French Creole, to be exact. Oh, my voice, I like the
sound of my three daughters when they sing together. My own voice is a
I sed it I sed it I hate to be Dramatic but I sed it
the hot juicy morning beverage is now making noises
Miss Hard Candy saves the Sequoias.
A name is an echo of ourselves or just a random cry in the wilderness.
Save them from slaughter
Aspen screams "Oak, marry my daughter!"
As we are bunnyhopping through suburbia,
a shadow crosses our path.
"Where are you going with that circular saw, our orphaned prince?"
"Home is where you make it," he replies.
Easy as that, there are no more tomorrows.
With a word or two, we whimpered off
and begged for a big bang bomb of an exit.
But it would not come.
There is not going to be any forgiveness today.
The big meow says good-bye.
Every Sunday is spent worshiping false prophets and loose change.
The choirs moans.
Come over and fuck me upside tomorrow,
from the inside, if you please.
I could mentally fuck you.
Say it like you mean it.
Glamorama, and shut the fuck up, already!
Want to play a game?
The meaning to the meaning
of life
books and beer, books, more beer,
and a few more books.
I have a confession to make.
I am a bibliophile
getting 150 sexual imagines in mind at once.
We changed my answer at the last moment.

Of course, it makes sense that I find work in a bookstore, at a 'for-profit, corporate commercials play all day and late night scam,' every few months or so, just long enough for me to find the books to bring home and cloister. The song Final Straw by REM echoes through my head. Did I mention that I have an affinity for the Wynkoop Ales? Another half-rack of the Broadway Brewery and Ralph Steadman Samplers float into the garage and then, down into my gullet. Accidents happen. I miss the daze of shooting pool on the second floor of the Wynkoop Brewery with the best professor on the planet, a Railyard Ale or two behind on the times. I miss my boy Bradford! The leprachaun bastard! He holds the key to the Ivory Treehouse!
Will I ever be subversive or dramatic enough? Maybe if I change my name to Elvis. Better yet, Envy. What in the Hell are you going to do, when you have no one to turn to, no one to pick up the glass shards, and patch up the bloody scratches? Where will you hide, when you are alone?
If I were a god, I would orgasm, more often.
Raw Toilet Bowling for Dollars, here comes Tommy Tsunami, and he is not afraid to shout.
Why are you looking at me, like that?
Get on your knees and pray against my crotch, quickly.
We will write it up as a divine intervention.
My favorite television show is called 'Reality.'
Daily body counts are not making this experience any easier.
"Oh, Johnny, won't you come on home? We are worried." - The Fine Young Cannibals
"Hold my hand, and make me understand," she says.
The following movie is rated 'Reality Impaired.'
Spooning the Past, she wiggles her ass back against him.
"When Johnny comes marching home, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah, when Johnny comes marching home, hurrah, hurrah..."
Streetcorner signholders, the Iraqi Vet, amputee, but s/he did not die, thanks to that Kevlar(tm) vest that his/her mother bought off of Ebay(tm) from a rat-faced Radar O'Reilly, and this is not MASH, anymore. I drown myself in expensive microbrewed beer, and Apple-coated blueberries.
Good Morning, Vietnam!
Good Morning, Afghanistan!
Good Morning, Iraq!
Good Morning, War!
Thank you for making an enemy out of my neighbor!

I would have baked a Bundt cake, walked it over on my own, but you never asked, and I never demanded....to know where you were going at three in the morning, a bottle of champagne in your hand. You always smelled the best when you were walking away. I know that you will recognize that line as being about you.
but then her 3rd World was an ocean named after NeverNever Land....as if...

Once upon a time meant happily ever after.
I need to get some nightshifters to blow that game down...
Excuse me, but why does Moldie get to play along here?
Ocean has been leaving before we get here
Funny yes, she is leaving now, for tomorrow.

Thank you,
I want to call someone
but I have a feeling my voice isn't enough

How long have you been feeling your voice,
and what does it feel like?
Super Sexy Girl underoos(tm)?
A month of Sundaes walking through the park on Sundays?
A month of strawberry sundaes
dressed in Super Sexy Girl underoos,
strolling through the park on Sundays?

Lady 'runs hands down length of your chest
down further south
cross the boarder
to the sneak river ....
there is one tree that stands above all trees
and its made of HARD WOOD'
(We walk across the border
and into the Snake River)
I reply
'We need to make out on the phone
with Wicked Daisy Lions.'

Opening another Tire Bite Golden Ale
from Broadway Brewery
we pull up our droopy drawers
and stagger off to the garage
for a smoke.

The universe is made up of one big long field of roses.
While you were asleep, we moved them.
As long as they are not dead and stuffed into some vase
or another.
The roses on Mars smell like coffee,
and taste like chicken.

Good Mourning, Vietnam!
And Iraq
and Afghanistan
and Thailand
and Indochina

Good Mourning, Death
I saw you standing around,
trying to look insignificant,
dark sunglasses and all,
just the other day.

I wanted to call someone, so I did.

She forgot to pick up.

Natural versus Unnatural Acts of Violence

Subtext: Explain to me what it means to have Jayne Manslaughter and Tommy Tsunami competing for the most horrendous act of the century.

There is no innocence in the politics of humanitarian assistance. -Unknown

The man who does not read good books has no advantage over the man who cannot read them. - Mark Twain

You are my hate crime, mine and only mine. Stop looking at me. This experience has become an unnatural disaster. I love you for that. Come over here, so I can beg and then, demand that you leave. Just do it. Do it now. Say something loudly. Often. Only in a horribly dislocated world can we sit back with our Tupperware(tm) bowl of Orville Reddenbocker(tm) popcorn and watch 200,000 souls rise to the Heavens like it is a rerun of the Real World(tm) on Reality Television. Merry Christmas, my dear! Two-hundred thousand people died on the birth of your Chirst, and they were all Muslims. I hope you are happy now, Virginia, with your Santa Clause of destruction and elves of doom. What do you have planned for the encore?

There is an unequal distribution of wealth and disaster in this world. Those who can, never pay for it, and live on the top of the hill. Those who cannot, pay for it until they are dead, and live along the flood,tornado, hurricane, and tsunami plain. My cardboard bedroom is soaked wet, and my ankles are deep in misery. This is the weeping song, a song that won't worry you long. Tomorrow, we will invade another country and kill another 200 thousand people, well, just because we can, and on the next day, we will forecast the doom and gloom that you have made into your shantytown home. Ask me no questions, and I will tell you no lies. Ha! That is the biggest joke of them all.

"As I raise my hand to broadcast my objection. As your latest triumph draws the final straw," sings REM, "Who died and lifted you up to perfection?"

Silence becomes the order of the day, and the meaning behind the law. We begged. "Not today. Not today." Please do not let hatred take me over, again, tomorrow. Will Forgiveness give over the day to Revenge? Love is constantly being drawn into question. Is the exam going to be multiple choice? I wish that everything complicated came down to just true and false in the end.

Chainsaws and rodeo clowns, we raise our glasses in a toast to pay you heed. We could never accomplish our jobs without you. Be good to yourself and don't forget the safety goggles. Here is a little holiday bonus. When getting dressed, always step into your pants, one leg at a time.

"Signals crossed, and love notes lost, we are overwhelmed, just because," sings Mikey Stipe.

I could not agree any more.

"Lock and load, lovers, it is time for you to earn your chow," the burly drill sergeant barks. "Don't let me catch any of you numbnuts trying to catch some shut eye. You sleep, we all die. Always remember, boys and girls, that war is always good! Always good for the victorious!" roars Sgt. Slaughter. "Now, get out there and rape and pillage in the name of God, and all things good enough to be put on sale."

If you are keeping up with the recent mathematical puzzle, try some of these numbers on for size: 1,300,000 people have died, this year, because of the Disunited States of ShameriKKKa's need for war-making, starvation-waiting, and international corporate take-overs. I imagine the spindoctors and hatemongers are happy with the results. Not to mention, they were able to convince us that we reelected this puppet administration.

I was all for voting for the Sesame Street ticket. Kermit, being a Green, would make a great world leader. (Always remember: It is not easy being Green.) Miss Piggy just called, she wants her Kermie to call her back with her cabinet position. Count Countula and Oscar-the-Grouch could only possibly mess up the counting, this bad, if there was a whole mass of underhandedness at play.

I really do not see why you are being so dramatic about all of this. You saw it coming, in your dreams, and later, in your desires. So why is it so difficult now to let it all go, to let the world break into pieces and watch us die like a little boy holding onto the wings of a fly?

The Goddess wants her body back. We need to stop being the cancer, and the chemotherapy; the causality and effect in one. Humanity is just another excuse to skip school, get knocked up, and start all over again. I would wager to bet that she will not be as forgiving or forgetful, the next time around and around, we go. What goes around will come around to catch you right in the face, with a bullet, when you least expect it. Ask anybody with a soul.

"Stop looking at me like that. You never write. You never call. How can I expect for you to be there, when the time comes? An eye for an eye, and a desire for a desire, will die without the breath of fire."

"Now, you are just being silly," she replies. "A night of folly and bold-faced lies has never left me feeling any more hollow than you have done to me, all the times before. Frolicking, and falling under the spell of your gaze, the Princess falls apart and confesses that she, too, is a virginal delicate flower, simply wet and waiting to be plucked."

"Pop my cherry, bitch," she snarls, "Or I will tell everyone on the block that you raped me, and you will be fucked, either way, so you might as well get off, don't you think?"

"Jayne Manslaughter and Tommy Tsunami met one Christmas eve, while the rest of the orphanage was having eggnog and wearing their stickfigure stockings around," the matronly woman says, as she absentmindedly plays with the keyring around her neck.

"I accidentally slid my fingers between your legs," he says, "and suddenly, I am a rapist. You didn't say anything, yet flinched, when I stuck my tongue into your belly button."

"Stop attacking the thing that you are defending," she says, then giggles, before lighting a cigarette from the candles burning, scattered around the room."

"Jayne, I would never leave you here in this desert sphere of emotional cannibals," he replies.

"Do you promise? Triple dawg dare promise that you will never leave me, no matter what happens. Tommy, tell me that you love me."

"Has anyone ever told you that you think too much?"

"Yes, and often."

"Do you believe them?"

"I don't believe anyone, unless I have witnessed them telling the truth with my own two eyes. Lying and deception are much more cooperative bedfellows than anyone else who has stumbled into this gangbang."

"I am not going to suck your cock, if you keep up with this attitude," she says.

It has been another long strange day of unnatural disasters.

The Book Made Me Do It

He knows that he will never be comfortable in life again.
"The book made me do it," he says to her.
"Do what?" She asks.
"Everything. Blame the book. Ankle deep is my misery."
Shouting lies into a coffee can, the outlaw reaches home to the promised land, and she screams out "You are running away with my soul."
"I never looked back. When I was there, all you said was that you were alone."
"You just have to understand that a lady has limitations to her patience. Every wandering profit deserves a home under my mattress."
"Now you are just trying to give me the Creepin' Willies."
"You said that you wanted to get into my bed, didn't you?" She has a mischievous sneer that dances flirtatiously through the cigarette smoke.
"You are the usher of destruction, and the hostess of doom, aren't you?"
"I plan to expose your lies for what they are, fictions! I am going to break your eye open until your chakras bust! Everything is falling into place!"
"Thanks for listening to me complain about my cushy, alienated life!"
"Do you speak American?" She asks. "What exactly is your cultural identity?"
"American is the engine that drives the cyberlinguistical constructs of the world."
"There you go, getting all abstract, again," she replies. "Don't you ever wonder if you are turning people off with your jibber-jabber? Why don't you just write something that everybody could understand?"
"Are you really what you speak?" He retorts.
"You are what you eat, and you, sir, are making me hungry. Feed me! Fill me with your stuffing! Stuff me with your filling! Do me, baby, do me!"
"Butter my butt and call me a biscuit," he mumbles, as the disdain spills from his lips.
"You are making me hungry."
To Whom It May Concern/Occupant/You;

The rumors of my demise have been only slightly exaggerated. The suicide mission was unsuccessful, so there is little else to do but sweep up the fifty-pounds of broken glass and smashed computer equipment, and start the process, all over again. So begins the frostbitten and mean New Year, a rabid junkyard dog ravenously hungry, dancing and strutting her way into another day. It is impossible to measure my discontent using that silly foot-long ruler, while you are comfortably perched up in your satellite.
"It took me three years, six months, twelve days, four and three-quarters hours, and forty-two minutes to write a paragraph, and it was only four sentences long. At this pace, my version of the Great American novel will remain unfinished for the rest of my life. These notes from the underground cannot be heard over the roar of the singing dead."
There is no poetry to be found in prose. Everything that you say comes out sounding forced, and contrived. Maybe that is the intention. Somebody needs to slap this boy around, a little bit. Wait! Somebody has already tried that. Someone else has suggested that you take a little vacation. We are considering all of our options.
Will you please remind me again the difference between natural and unnatural disasters? The numbers are rather mind-boggling, and we are going to be forced to use the new NEW mathematics. Over one-hundred and fifty-thousand poverty-stricken people were removed from the equation, thanks to an angry tsunami, which by definition would be a natural disaster (however oxymoronic the expression natural disaster might be). To date, the price of war in Iraq, in terms of casualty rates, wavers around the same number. In the first case, the Disunited Estates of ShameriKKKa has committed $350 million dollars in aid, ten times the amount that they initially promised, following the event. Dividing the bounty by body counts, $2333 will be spent per fatality on rebuilding the entire infrastructure of the Muslim-based Indonesia and Sri Lanka.

The Disunited Estates government has acknowledged spending $120 billion dollars on the invasion and rebuilding of Iraq, with the casualty numbers hovering around 120 to 150 thousand innocent bystanders. Using the same equation as above, an unnatural disaster, such as war, necessitates one-hundred thousand dollars per casualty, whereas the most powerful tsunami in human memory squeezes a mere two-thousand dollars from the tightly-clenched fists of this administration.

In the first case, a natural disaster has crippled our perspective on reality, while we watch from miles, countries, and belief systems away. Sunbathing in our luxuries, we can sit back and enjoy playing the voyeur. In the second example, we are the creators of disaster, giving rise to even more political emphasis. The early estimates of the Sudanese civil war suggest that one-million people will die, this year, as the Arab-Muslims, on horseback, ransack, rape, and pillage African-Muslims, dislocating hundreds of thousands from their home. The present position of the Disunited States is one of apathetic disregard, when it comes to the Sudan. It would appear that we are simply waiting for the Muslims to kill each other, before moving in to claim the 450 billion barrels of oil below them.

What has happened to these abused foster children, and what has happened to us?

Shattered Glass Soup

The suicide mission was unsuccessful, and the new year begins. Oh, joy of joys! We have yet another chance to start over, after pitching a ceramic elephant through the sliding glass door, then body-slamming the computer and scanner a few times. Love, a deadbeat dad, is such a vicious and cruel companion. He is always oversleeping, late getting to work, late getting home, and never around when you want him. Don't tell Love, but the management is seriously thinking about firing him.

Thick pea-soup fog covers up the damages, and my stomach growls in time with the breakfast cereal commercials. The cardboard that is taped over the hole will never keep out the freeze that is forthcoming. We have been sentenced to a lifetime of anxiety and violence. After all, isn't this the age of discontent? Maybe I will spend the rest of the year in the garage, chainsmoking on a cold eight-dollar sweatshop-made fold-up chair.

Dec. 21st, 2004

Dear Santa,

I know that you are kind of busy, right now, and well, this letter is a little late in coming, but could you do one small thing for me? Could you stop over in Maine, on your way from the North Pole, and pick someone up?

P.S. All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth to not be sitting in a glass on the nightstand.

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