(youtube won't let me comment at the site; no surprise there).
Dog Poet Transmitting.......
May your noses always be cold and wet.
It's not the easiest job in the world, juggling the viewpoints, opinions and beliefs of a large number of individuals. The people who come around here are mostly pretty well informed about a lot of things. Sometimes, it's just information without much practical use. Sometimes it's practical. What's practical for one person is not necessarily practical for all. We've got different goals, different needs. Some of us are on different rays and different imperatives apply. Most all of us have two hands and two feet. Most of us have a brain and a heart but our objectives can vary widely. Some of us have families and children. Some of us don't and both sides may well be very content with what they do have, without that reflecting negatively on either. It just makes their circumstances different and affects their priorities.
Some people get really out there with fears and expectations. Things like this always make me think of “the best laid plans of mice and men”. Given that the cosmos has a deep sense of humor and irony, I always think there will be some glaring hole in the plans and preparations that don't reveal themselves until further down the road. The corruption just gets worse and worse. Somehow people have gotten the impression that the Afghanistan conflict has ended. This is because they announced it ending two years from now but it's not ending. Nobody knows where it 's all headed from here, except The Shadow 'and' the thing The Shadow gets its existence from, as a result of blocking the light. News like this is proliferating like deranged multipliers out of The Sorcerers Apprentice. You can't go to any local or national news, without hearing about shootouts, car chases, spree killings and all the colorful pressure response reactions that are the confetti and wind torn bunting of The Kali Yuga. Everybody wants to get their licks in. Things that shouldn't have happened are allowed to happen, against all odds in (dis)respect of the criminal justice system, which now exists to give all criminals latitude and license, especially if they are well-heeled shitheels. Tribe slime, like Michael Bloomberg and Little Georgie Sorrows, are plotting and planning the trepanning of the human race, which has apparently been lost, ever since it was turned into a three-legged potato sack jaunt.
The sheer weight of suspicion, evidence and conjecture, along with whatever I left out, seen at the alternative news sites, is off the charts in bulk and iridescent brine, filled with dayglo shrimp, swimming upside down in the Fukushima currents, in the rain and ruin, the infected tide pools but... what we are really drowning in, is indifference. Thousands more people follow the slag slut episodes of The Kardashians than anything connected to Fukushima, or the rape of the economy, or the threat of world war, or what they put in their mouths and especially what comes out of their mouths.
A really big earthquake is brewing in several locations, especially that big fault line that runs from Mexico up through Kalifornia. I coined that phrase decades ago and I still haven't gotten a dinner (grin). Volcanos are smoking and people are choking (or will be and should be) from pink slime comestibles. Heroin's cheap, it needs to be. Opium is also the opium of the people, as yet another Tribe member didn't say, prior to instituting the deaths of tens of millions in Russia and here is why Gunter Grass's poem sucks. I noticed the same thing with fairly recent, sorta war, poetry from Ferlinghetti. It ain't spaghetti, it's Spaghetti-o's that comes in a can. Yeah, it's canned, like the laughter that accompanies our permitted debasement of self, honor, integrity and all those other ghosts from Christmas past.
Here's why the poem sucks. It's disingenuous. It skirts all around what is so and why it's so. A man of that age should know better. Is he worried about his legacy? Well, I guess that means he has one. Uh huh. Of course, you don't usually win a Nobel Prize, unless you are 3 bottles short of a six pack in the dark of the night; sometimes you wake up, more clear than ever before and it all comes to you. Perhaps you weep and perhaps you cannot weep but you know. You know what you have done and what you have not done. You know if you tipsy-tippy toed your way through the Nightshade in the tulips and it's not Tiny Tim singing, it's Marilyn Manson.
When you take the inspiration out of what you do, which involves removing the honesty that would have spawn real controversy and eye-opening among the sleeping dead, you've removed whatever might have been there that would have made the thing worth reading or listening to. There's not much more pathetic than a poet who cuts off the access to the actual author. Of all the arts, this is the one least crafted by human hand and mind, without that input, you get shit and dribble-drivel, something like an old man at the toilet late at night, trying to pee. That's what you got.
No one can tell me that Grass and Chomsky and all the rest of the sidestepping gatekeepers don't know what really happened and is happening. Grass's poem is like the white flour in the industrial silos and warehouses. They take all nutrients out of it. It become an inert and nothingness matter. This is so the rats and cockroaches won't eat it. They pump it all back in when they make that Wonder Bread that builds wrong bodies 12 different ways. You can take a whole loaf of Wonder Bread out of the package and crush it into a ball the size of a baseball. Nice. Really nice. All you need is some pink slime spread. Yeah, the color comes from the pimentos, not blood from the stool of The Kali Yuga, presently occupied by rank after rank of marching shit golems; anthropomorphic entities of no fixed identities, shifting with the tides of the moment. Face and shape-shifting, into whatever the commercial says they are.
WTF is going on? Well, cats and kitties, the shit that has been impacted on the inside. That impacted colon on the astral plane, is being exposed to the colon cleansing chemicals of the cosmic, internal, janitorial service. Once an age gets to that 'outta here' state, it's in the same condition as your usual carnivore, sitting at the window, in a geriatric holding and loading zone. Things don't work like they did because they're all gummed up from congealed slime. No one paid any attention to this when they were young and now they see where that led, if they see, which probably they do not. So... all of the unbelievable crap that keeps pushing earlier crap off of stage, is being hosed out of the more invisible confines where it has resided for some time. When a new age comes in, it's going to need an empty house. You can trust that, over time, it will get all fucked up too (Kali Yuga) but we're not there, except in respect of the one departing and that one will take everything attached to it along with it. If you haven't detached yourself from the impacted state, you'll go where that colon goes. Otherwise, the benign and loving intent of that which cannot be named or defined, will shit you out unto a land of bright, though temporary, promise and you can get your towel, your cooler and your sunglasses and go sunbathe on the warm, or cool, clean sands of serenity. Pardon me for the scatological graphics. I guess we all wind up on Paracelsus's chaffing dish at one point or another.
Mad winds are swirling in the rat-fucked enclaves of the urban nightmare. The pressure of the bodies passing, drives up the heat. The steam from Hell's Kitchen, rises up through the manholes and gratings, along the sidewalks of zukunft Detroit, ubiquitous from Karachi to Cairo, from Mexico City to New York. We're surfing on a sound cloud of bad vibrations. Something good (the soundtrack will be there at the end of the posting) is resonating underneath. The darkness and confusion is being pressed outward. It's a cyclic thing. It's a natural routine in the natural order. It looks bad to the temporary mind, trapped in the comings and goings of lifetimes, forgotten to each other, between the hiatus points but... never fear... it's almost here or... well, 'or' for those of you without a rudder or an oar. The symbolic is often obscured by the appearance of the mundane and ordinary seeming. We miss the dramatic edge and meaning in the humdrum of the hypnotic state. Soon enough we can stop asking ourselves, “Is that all there is”? All there is, is going to be multifariously manifest in specific and general ways and the varieties of destiny, implicit within the mix, or in the purity of exception. This, all of this, is one more posting from the hinterlands of wilderness in the land of locusts and wild honey.
Disappointment always has a lot to do with expectation. Every expectation cannot be met, depending on what you signed up for in the first place. Those unlucky in the karmic lottery will be finding their expectations fulfilled due to low expectation and wherever that particular train is running, one should always remember that it is on fixed tracks.
On we go, into the fields of 'you never know'. On we go, our tracks illustrated in the bloody mud, covered by snow in our passage, invisible on the hard rock surface, or disappearing in the endless returning surf upon the sand. Inward tracks and outward tracks, run on their courses, for each and everyone, according to what they think they want and where it's located. Your guess is as good as mine but... I'm not guessing, I'm relying. Good luck to you, sportfucking in the high, wide and lonesome. You're going to need it.
'Something Good (is Coming Soon)' is track no. 10 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'
Lyrics (pops up)
There will be the usual radio show this Sunday night.