"there was nothing there!"

it's reasonable to assume
that a reptilian
Fear of the State
welling up from the timid
reptile region of me
is what caused
the tears to spill over my
wine and salt-fattened cheeks
that day some years ago,
when the nice policeman circled back
and accosted me for
walking in the open air
with an open bottle,
and not, as he said, the decency
to disguise it.

But when he was done administering
his version
of Justice-by-tedious, drawling, solipsistic lecture,
and i was then obliged to offer
my minute's minuet of being
cowed and eager to explain myself, officer,
what should happen
but a big greasy plump tear
of sick-souled heart-burn
spilled greedily down my right face.
he got the unstately raw version.
I clutched that bottle
like an I.V.
and told him why i looked
like i did,
and then he was the one
who felt cowed,
and sorry for his crimes, and drove off with his
officer's mind all heavy
with some permanently open 
and weeping love wound
from his past,
it's reasonable to assume.

Sus scrofa democratica:

The 3-Year Deafening Silence of The Electorate's Complacency in the Interim Between Executive Branch Hustle Seasons, or, How to Have a Sound Moral Opinion on Voting for a US President

"I live 6 flights up..
Oooh how that man loves to climb."
~~from, The Blues

"I voted."
~~ Imbecilic bumper sticker proudly held aloft before face of self-congratulating peasant in their New Facebook Profile Pic, probably because they are newly hot with the heat of feeling the Bern.

It may be that voting in the current American system is complete fatuity and swinish arrogance. We call it fatuous because it's the perfect word for the act, one committed very often without question or understanding. And we say "swinish" because we go to the booths like pigs, to the trough of our own fattening conceits, all massed up and comforted by nearness to so many other needy, self-devouring ungulates. It's a multi-layered anthropomorphic metaphor, see. (So keep in mind that pigs, though clever, are herd beasts mostly found with husbands of a stronger species. The subject here is not the actually free, lean-bellied ancestral pig who still roams the forests, with tusks, frightening more dominant species, no.)

But also we say "swinish" because it is understood and accepted, when wanting to denigrate human behavior, to compare it to that of pigs, because pigs are filthy animals, and live in their own shit, and like it, whereas human beings prize themselves clean and virtuous animals, advanced long past the era of monkeying around in poop and darkness. This means, in part, that we have become masters of deception in all its forms, and are content to lie about the fact that we are wallowing in shit, blood, and collective infamy, and indeed are getting better at all of it.

The voting species of swine is rightly called arrogant because they perform their election ritual with such an airy sense of accomplishment, solemnity and ceremony. It might be an accomplishment if something was affected, or effected, that were not odious and inimical to our well-being. As a herd, we are not clever enough to see the full, grandiose scam of the voting scheme, though we are clever enough to have produced a Goldman or a Twain who then said, "if voting changed the system it wouldn't be legal." (The provenance of this quote is unclear perhaps because we have all had the same thought.) As opposed to more local forms of government, this is decidedly more true of the larger, federal-sized governments, which happen to wield tremendous power and in securing their interests often slaughter millions of citizens of every sort of country by military force and remote aerial bombing, and other unmentionable methods that even better define the true nature of Power.

Now right here I am compelled to attempt a clean diagnosis of the electing disorder, morally speaking. I'll try to phrase the problem, as I see it, in as crystallized and clinically abstracted, philosophical a way as I can. For years, dimly, and eventually, clearly, I perceived the essential moral problem with voting in its average practice as being the following: When one votes, they are typically voting from the place we call the "ego" or the vanity cortex. All other communal or nuanced or philosophically unselfish considerations are murdered when you willingly lurch forward from your poll position at the elementary school or courthouse and ally your own moral stance and nature with that of a single other human being. Let alone these horrifying motherfuckers before us in 2015-16, or 2016-17, or 2017-18, until the end. What I mean is that these creatures are in some sense nothing more than a reflection of your own positive and favorable self-image. In micro-moments of honesty, anyone will tell you that they vote for this or that figure because they imagine that figure to be in agreement with their own private value system and political philosophy, and this is a simple, academic relationship. It's very basic psychological self-identification, which in theory wouldn't appear to be able to produce, on the whole, a sound democracy. You may even be voting for that simpering oval-faced cracker simply because he, like you, feels that Count Chocula breakfast cereal is the very best, above all other cereals, snacks, and pacifiers. Maybe that female would-be senator from Crackerton shares with you the only political position worth having: that evil niggers like Willie Horton oughtn't be raping white women. Maybe taxation is your most fiery obsession and about all other social issues you are satisfied not giving fucks or fondles. In so many cases of voting I sense that the primary issue is a kind of barely concealed, self-adoring self-reflexivity, an elevating of one's fetishes, hang-ups, and morbid and over-particular myopias to an imagined, grander visionary scale. Indeed, I sense something so dirty and seamy in the theoretical act of voting in modern systems, that I struggle even privately to articulate it, or describe its smell. But I know certainly that the stink comes from inveterate, almost biochemical pettiness in the hearts and minds of human beings. Tradition, jealousy, materialism, various psychic and sexual insecurities, and the interior narrative of power relations writ every size, etc. And perhaps far deep down, the pathetic and craven simian need for leaders, for chieftains, for physical bad-asses to protect the village and the water source and the imaginary harem of genetic right-of-way. How about a monsterful breakfast for the rest of your days. I am the candy-date that will give it to you and keep immigration and race-mixing to a reasonable limit.

But in the Clemens tradition, I won't allow myself to be more than briefly side-tracked with precision philosophy or nuance: we are talking about a very influential, space-age monkey species and we wish to be bound to the territory of generalities and broad historical conjecture, which is larded with proofs of how systems of Homo Sapiens governance are an elegant sham that have worked brilliantly to trick the governed into being shit-caked animals with a fat and bloated opinion of their so-called civilization, and their tinkering little role in its upkeep. This is certainly the specific case with the form of government in the United States of America, which is at the tip of the world hegemonic spear and reportedly the top of the heap of something. Now, it is reasonably well-proven that throughout its existence our species has enjoyed periods of actual, free self-rule and harmony among and between various herds and clans. People speak well of old Athens and the principles of some pre-colonial peoples the globe over, and the principles of political egalitarianism that have led to some of the modern republics with their highly mulled over and credentialed constitutions, and their generously recorded histories. Violent outbreaks of popular revolt against oppressive systems occur still and all through time in small, out-of-the-way pockets of empire, and some youths of the offending ruling class even support these struggles, in theory, from within their class rooms, and dance festivals, their drug-inflamed sex orgies, and term papers. Then there are the assorted smaller cadres of Europeans and aesthetic radicals who attempted to realize different utopian and socialist visions. But we are not in times of real "democracy" and active, utopian self-determination right now, when it comes down to It, which is just where we're at, and which state has caused the stench that disturbed you and caused you to recoil in your dreams and vague moments, if not when you were wide awake.

We have one very fresh and steamy example of the larcenous futility of the American political system and voting in it. We can be frank here, and hairy, and state it plainly: The younger Bush did not win the important presidential election of 2000, and perhaps even more clearly, lost his second assault on the Republic in 2004. These contests were manifest frauds, almost too wicked and insulting to consider without laughter or a deep, crippling disgust. Depending on one's views of the authenticity of the official Non-11 narrative, these election frauds may take on an even more troubling and ominous color. But every credible measure that has ever been made of these castor oil referendums ("You'll take it and not like it!") proves very simply that Bush was installed, or selected.

Put another way, the whole game was rigged, and we the participants were simply pulling levers that were attached to nothing, for proponents and opponents that are little fake front men for the more authentic and powerful players that have always lurked in the backdrop of it all. In spite of the sounds from the onanist echo chamber of media and mainstream punditry, "W" was not even a credible contestant, or intended to be. No amount of make-up or historical revision will clean up that imp's stinking low character or erase the stain of his blotched, madness-stricken face from the national lineage of Important Guys. A murderer of frogs and a crasher of bicycles, the blank-minded puppet priest chosen to preside haplessly over the satanic/dark masonic mega-ritual of Nein-11 he was, and nothing more. He is, for all time in his archetypal way, The Cipher and puppet executive, and unworthy of further remark here, where we are serious, except to say that his outright vileness and ineptitude was a cute additional insult above the weird piratical farce of those long-winded millennium rituals. The game was rigged. A cackling elf may as well have been perched inside the shambolic voting apparata and behind the corrupted touchscreen computers in your local demo-cracy zone, eating or wiping his ass with your ballots and digital selections. We all lined up to be summarily shot with silliness and trumpery, and were impatient when the line moved too slowly. We snorted and stamped and enjoyed our harsh divisions, but everyone knows how astonished we really were when the offensive idiot from the somewhat provenu CIA and banking dynasty scampered away for a second time with the presidency, and a victory over an obvious, fraternal patsy who now heads the state department and looks barely human because of ghastly plastic surgeries. If any of us recalls, the 2000 matter was ultimately settled by the Supremest Court in the Land. Their decision is infamous and it tells only a small part of the story. The dark alliance of Bribery and Coercion probably tells the rest. Indeed, some competent, informed researchers say money from the bottomless coffers of the Coca Cola Empire (a corporation well-known to be connected to the Central Intelligence Agency in the same way that Air America and The National Endowment for Democracy and USAID are) went towards this barrister-buying. The one dissenting opinion whispers volumes, if one were to read it, in a safe place.

And so we touch on the minds and most importantly the frail memories of our species. If we had memories to serve us, and not just televisions and pharmacologists, we would sense the repetitious Wrong of these patterns in the systems we consider so important. It's very clear that we are terminally forgetful, as a species; we have senile or child-like memories and deference to our superiors, which relation can replace the need for memories, learning, and knowledge. Servitude is always a form of helplessness, of complete dependence. But it is also swinishness and pathological egomania, in our case. We are now told that a new day has dawned and America swiftly redeemed itself from the Bush-League years by electing an Afro-American president. An actual negro in the white house, however diluted and brahminized the blackness might have been. So many good people leaped headlong into a blubbering fit of "liberal" optimism in 2008. And those who were dumb and bad, or at least dumb, howled bitterly and they cringed at the prospect of the ostensible tanned goodness of what appeared to be Obama, the near-complete reversal of Bush.

Altogether, the land was seduced and prodded into a kind of skin-deep and monochrome monomania, content to make the whole contest a tussle of shallow identity values, without bothering to judge the charade at large. We don't have memories or we would recall that this kind of evil outrage of being tricked on a titanic scale is nothing new. Historically, we are a nation whose role seems to be that of a garrison state, under remote control. Our principal purpose seems to be to make war for various forms of profit on behalf of a more elite grade of human being that does not recognize similac notions like sovereignty, human rights, nationalism or justice. This arrangement requires massive trickery and scientific brainwashing. It requires in a pendular fashion the exigent need to pull a brownish nigger from a silk top hat at the perfectest and most cynical time, following a nightmare of rule-by-Bush-and Company, or even to produce a Clinton after a Bush, but only in a time before the internet and the basic forms of competent research that thing affords. We must all join hands and admit that this wiser age of the internet could only be seduced and trickified by a State-baked Brownie like Obama, if we had first been professionally brainwashed by the eternal flickering horror-show of Non-11, which, to gild the obvious, was a show produced by the same hollywood-type outfit that then debuted Obama after his short life of finishing and painting up and being yanked fully formed from the head of the devil, somewhere between Hawaii and Indonesia and Columbia University. And I will race-mix and confuse all the metaphors I please right here, because for a little while, you see, I am in actual control. Telling you as it is, and not as it appears to be. I won that basically competent moron's right by publishing newspaper columns which refute the child's fiction known as the Non-11 Tragic Events. And by then pointing out in the same space that Paul Wellstone was probably murdered, thereby assassinating my own career in journalism.

Yea, we should remember, like good little sanctimonious lever-yankers who might retain some fondness for the truth and objective history-keeping, that our democracy has lately suffered murderous pangs of self-betrayal again and again, and resembles a failure totally hollowed out by greed and evil. There are state-assassinated presidents, congressmen, and moral leaders littering our recent past. There is the constant sacrilegious warfare by every means against other countries. All along the way, lies, jingoism, distortion, corrupted news media. We don't comprehend that 100 years is absolutely meaningless as an historic period of time, but significant in our case for its strange, homicidal, even cultural viciousness. So much evil, and sanctimony to cover it, in so little time. In our case, it seems our memories are so bad that we have no sense of time at all, or vice versa. Fifty years ago is 5 centuries, at least. We have Kennedy brains still spattered all over us and rotten material from the bodies of Lincoln and Wellstone stuck in our guts but we don't notice, or maybe we don't care. We are only good pigs and only wish to be fed routinely. For routine food distribution systems and a solid infrastructure, we will even sit down or suit up and submit to sadistic brainwashing, and go to endless, psychotic war. We're slyly trained with sports and video games and always, formally, by the military and by our secret husbands, and we hardly notice any of it. Games and Wars never stop, and they never have purpose, the funny things. But they both become more global and Greater, and more shiny with imagined virtues. They must be related somehow. They always have asses for the seats, meat for the kill, and grist for the mill. What right does meat on a hook have to vote for anything.

To get us constantly to forget requires some effort, you can imagine. I know you can. Because we are smart creatures and it is not simply a question of memory-loss here, but of trauma and coercion, too. In our case, the most effective expression of this effort, and maybe the only one worth talking about, besides football and Lady Gaga and all of televised or visual media, is the American public school system. I can't speak of private schools because I am from the lower classes. In those schools, they probably enjoy a different kind of scholarship, a different kind of education altogether, as they end up in very different neighborhoods, income brackets, and prisons. But in public schools I can tell you, we are ruthlessly taught to forget, and whipped if we remember. We are given harmless texts and a regimen that involves bells and a flag in every room except where we defecate. We are taught the obvious mysteries like Darwin and WWII, peace be upon it, and in these upsetting days we endure lots of testing that will determine our school's funding and the livelihood of our teachers. We are indeed very well-tested.

And we come out of these compulsory 13 years of training with a shabby and asinine view of the crucial subject of History, and apparently, also now, of the natural sciences, and math, and civics, and even basic, agreeable social training that for a time, about seven years, still held society together despite the advent of hand-held gadgets and compulsive internet masturbation. When I look back on the years of my primary and secondary education, the main impression I get is of the definite need for a tertiary one. We are not saying that the people there, my classmates and friends and fellows and instructors, were dumb or horrible, but that the specific school system itself, and its philosophy, were created by 19th-century Prussian Statists who worshiped centralized, fundamentally aristocratic power, and this system was selected and adopted by our Prussianic, freemasonic leaders for just this reason, because it regards us mainly as a form of chattel that can be brought into an ordered and reliable discipline. That is why we are lied to methodically and encouraged to feed or chant together in front of that mystery-school banner every morning, until the awful ritual isn't needed to help flatten our personal will, and we elect to refrain from standing and jabbering but still have the permanent tape-worm of obedience feeding in our stomachs. It is why we are force-fed such a fat catechism of lies. And obviously that's why our system has turned out this army of pitiless, vicious body and money-worshippers, these chemical-crazed sensualist hustlers who are stupid, vain and forgetful enough to call themselves "citizens." Usually even the finest and most honorable of us who graduate from high school to the voting booths are still just meat producers. We are tied to an economic system that is a murderous hoax and intended to crumble, and in our own political system we are meaningless and treated like babies with no understanding. Beyond our own private spiritual lives and our importance to our families and close communities, we are the lowest of pawns.

And then we have the universities, which we might hope would be that third and redeeming education, as we are hopeful and creative creatures, who anticipate the best as long as we get enough calories and the pump is thumping. The reality is far less wholesome. We make it to the end of another four to eight precious years of mandates and indoctrination and again receive square boards to put on our heads, and are granted our certificates, a ceremonial pronouncement of worth to society. Thus gripped by the ankle and smacked in the face, then flung to the unshackled bloodthirsty market, we can conclude that our universities have nothing to do with the universe and are in fact very much local, provincial institutions. They are so much more like your local cannery. The meat comes into the cannery and is put into tins, the tinned meat is then sent to market. As with caviar, there are different varieties and qualities of the canned matter, the best of which is produced and packaged in entirely different and mysterious buildings, and these wide varieties of flesh grant us all the illusions of choice and potential we desire. We have shining before us always the dreamlike possibility of advancement towards a higher grade of wastefully packaged slop. I don't know about you, patient word-reader, but fuck voting. It is the death cycle King of Insults to a dumb people who believe in Presidents and bin Ladens and possibly deserve them both. It's the modern Killing of the King ritual, expanded to the entire herd. Long live George W. Bush, Obama is King, Capital and material power are God.

For the Troops

Just where would
you like me to support you?

What if I held and patted your hand,
and told you some ghastly official lies,
about planes that can take down giant skyscrapers
merely by flying into them,
or about black muslim snipers
gone conspicuously haywire,
or anthrax attacks reeking of fake melodrama and
military-grade chemicals?
I will tell you outlandish myths
about the evil of foreigners
that would offend the reason
of a half-educated toddler,
and then order you to go kill such toddlers
in support of my myths.

What if I held your head and poured the boiling sap
of blind patriotism into your ringing ears,
with an assurance that the people
you killed yesterday are fanatics and savages,
and those you’ll kill tomorrow
would have stoned your middle-school daughter to death
for enjoying pop music or
the casual fellatio she has engaged in for some time now?

Do you need the support of my foot in your ass,
for going on a
mercenary mission to
lands where you do not belong and are sure to
mess things up to the
point where your host will wish upon you painful and
lingering death?
You didn’t know they had swords still,
in Mesopotamia. Swords for decapitation.
All that shit the army told you about them being
primitive tribesmen somehow
didn’t include mention of their ferocity
in settling scores and re-establishing manhood
under occupation.
when the thoughtless are made headless,
that is symmetrical warfare.

Yes, I think you do need me to lean on,
now that one of your legs has been
exchanged in Ramadi for a fine
steel and polymer get-up,
now that you have had time to brush up
on your history,
and are feeling ill.
Hoo-ah Hooey!

The Ogre Vespucci, or,
America the Purply


And the clatter sanity made when it scrambled from the room,
with vanity and cruelty biting and snapping at its
heels and pummeling it with a cudgel,
filled our tinny, cauliflower ears.
She could not stay long,
as our emperor is red-eyed crazy
and our people hopelessly subjugated
to the merest of his
Lunatic whims and prejudices,
such as cable TV and hip hopscotch
and vast child abduction schemes
run by intelligence services.
Already we had witnessed the broadcast rape and murder
of our collective pride,
during the election.
We watched the gleeful sadism in their sick little eyes
as they snatched the presidency
and encouraged us to think it mattered.

America sure is something.
Yes something like a cave-dwelling monster
that demands continuous sacrifice,
of many things:
Not of virgins and strong men, any more, because along
with slavery some pleasures had to be surrendered, but instead
the sacrifice of humane and
universal impulses wherever they have
the sniveling, trilling temerity to occur…
And, still to this day, massive animal sacrifice, of quadrupeds and fowl, to feed our
blubbery bellies,
and of dirty, shrunken foreign bipeds to provide
labor ever-replenishing and scarcely compensated,
yes, sacrificial bipeds who drag their thin bodies across
bloodthirsty deserts just to prepare you
a cheap and wasteful breakfast;
just to stoop in your fields.

“Give me animal products and lazy Mexicans” bellows the monster, while engineering space laser programs for
the protection of the fanatically rich.
We in the real world must fear the Beast’s need
for perpetual target practice and
submit to his taste for products
made by the sweaty little palms of the underdeveloped world at 1000% profit.
“at least a third of my calories will derive from miserable birds and mistreated cattle, the global lawn will forever be patrolled by lantern-clutching niggers in full battle-rattle,”
--- such are his unsteady and insupportable decrees.

We must be careful, now that sanity has been chased into the night, bleeding from her eyes and ears, nursing an ass
full of shrapnel and semen.
The monster is feeling his oats and is drunk
with the power that grows from designing a nightmare
tailored for all and resisted by none.
Oh, he has stumbled, there go
the Empire's Masonic Twin Towers and the estate tax,
Oh, he is paranoid, several amendments lay gasping and disemboweled…
Oh, he wants a snack, look out in Haiti, beware, Venezuela,
My, how he seethes, in his delirium blaming monkeys for AIDS
and Africans for African famine and these civil wars
that can go on for 40 years but never for a second fail to provide
Diamonds and cell-phone bits
for the diseased pleasures of the West,
as his monstrous and cynical system soaks up
the earth’s moisture and drains it of life.
Beware the ogre, he is
the Pursuit of your Happiness
and the Standard for your Living.

Flight of the Chickadees

Editor's note: this screed was written shortly before the Day of the Tragic Events. The subject matter has gotten much worse since then.




They are all getting back and flitting
near the moat, the residence hall desk monitor:
Klackety klack
Not one not in black.

At least three tightly-clad body types,
each indistinct in that uniformly vacuum-wrapped way produced when
insecurity buts against a pandering to the loins,
they glide and stamp about in tight skirts and stretchy flared pants,
and overcoats of glamorous manufacture,
they shine in the cold of autumn.
against the cultural backdrop of normal non-Greek girls,
they are outstanding,
like nuggets of golden corn,
gleaming in ordure.
A gamedays' gross disappointment
has fueled their frenzy full to a
strident uncontrolled silliness
by this point,
packs of plump and anorexic banshees
shrieking through the streets as
they return from floating about in
impenetrable class nuclei,
from on high heels
presenting steady and disdainful resistance to all
but the most reassuringly groomed stock of fat-headed Anglo-Saxon princelings…
Klackety klack all in black
Thrusting and busting out

In clusters of three they
seem alien, an ethereal race with
impeccable taste in
the art of the unvarying face-paint
and unremarkable dark clothing,
interminably exchanging peppy stories, defamations and
hydrochloric rumors,
one hears, and
radioactive plastic plans
in a shrill, hoarse, lazy luxury tongue
made snappy by the cheap beer sloshing in their
well-nourished pouchy guts,
parading with urgent, forward-looking walks and gestures,
backs rigid and arms folded in some
dull protective fear before their
paraded schizoid bosoms,
scarcely noticing anyone not
similarly about their business and chatty

The demimonde, the attaches, the satellites,
the herds of kept women,
these minglers mixing and mating with kappa sigs and sigma chais and sometimes a lowly pike or unaffiliated athlete:
they blister the air with badinage
and in their drunkenness scrape the pavement like
they have hip displasure,
wiggling their lactose-rich bottoms with
a sense of invigorated and privileged idleness,
practicing distraction and mirthfulness
and anything to please
the men with the khakis and bullwhips and expensive cars
and hooked penises and minds squirming
with mean little lab-rat desires—
Young courtesans indifferent to the masses and the unmade-up,
Klippety-klop,
Kluckety-kluck

Waiting or longing for their dates,
their dashing granitic caravaners,
who constitute an exclusive race of martian suitors
Broad and yet narrow,
symmetrical but uneven and unfair,
who come choking on their crude clannish jokes.
Their sniggering is malicious
and they often speak of genitals.
Still on safari, still keeping the red man down,
still plashing angrily in the bay of Pigs
they come in a ceaseless belching flow of
the bulkiest bandwagons,
Durangos and Expeditions, Escalades and Grand Cherokees,
Trail and Forest Blazers,
seating up to seven scions of
reliable commerce and more than middling prosperity, each,
Neat, aggressive, drunk---leaking
the salacious charm
of the southland’s gallant ways…

Ready to spend money and time with boredom, as if fun were
a continuous burden
interrupted only in a small way by classes and forced nearness to the
grubby non-Greek,
as if fun were taking too long
for these patrician pups
arrayed in fatigues of caps and khaki
Kappa khaki pie
my burly posse do or die,
gonna Bustya in the Eye

A grotesque clay-footed dance performed by rich ciphers in drab costume,
filled to their gills with the awfullest swill,
these whelps of the
limp
and heartless
Master Class.


The revelry is unforced,
it is easy.
there are established and precise methods for
dissipation, oblivion,
for the nightly torture and sacrifice of notions like
humility and decorum:
There’s a certain bearing
of wretched genteel over-confidence
one is obliged to maintain
as he reels and hoots
with the royal belligerence of first-string cornerbacks
at the women of his clan,
and of course, at pedestrians,
and from a secure distance, niggers also.
The bearing is easy enough: it relies mainly on alcohol and dressing in a collar,
in collared shirts of
nauseating girlish pastels that demonstrate
their preening, unassailable manliness,
or a specific style of pants that tend to sag and
expose the wallet,
and this bearing depends
a lot on---derives its ludicrous prideful essence from---the formal claquing,
supportive, throbbing gestures
and verbal huskiness of one’s litter,
or entourage.

The womenfolk have a line they will never forget, and seem never to tire of:
it goes, “Whoooo!!”,
which in piety they blend with another favored, incredulous
ejaculation about O, their God, over and over.
As much as mixers, blackface hazing, a clothing codex, the theft of lawn decorations, Carnacus festivals and other
ritual manglings-together,
these fits of vigorous weekend drinking
and spasms of collective brawn
epitomize and gild the sparkly drama and precious pageantry of Greek Life,
Kappa khaki pie
Gonna bustya in the eye

A war with the suicidal Arabs is coming,
but the duty and post of these flushed young sauce packets
is on the dance-floor and
by the keg,
and in learning Business and Broadcasting,
bolstering american privilege and the
Power to say when and from what altitude
and I can be a fucking homicidal idiot if I please.
And though we shall bleed blood while
they may only hemorrhage dollars
and stock value,
still, in their hearts, flags will wave,
and the rhythm of Baghdad’s bombs
will pump in their frantic, loosened legs,
and then—tottering wildly with the canter of the well-stuffed---
they’ll retire to their hives to mate
in webs of smoke and clouds of beer,
fat with product,
bleeding black into khaki, air into stone
Klickety-klackety-clac
Yickety-yackety-yak

Freedom, or, The Extraordinary Fatness of Being American

Freedom:
...is not having
a squadron of speed-crazed mercenaries flying over you in
fanciful, super-advanced
Aircraft called “F-15’s” or some bullshit,
spraying you casually
with depleted uranium child lymphoma bullets
and dropping
12-ton bombs
that scatter hair-brained like high-tone western reason and sanctimony,
O-bliterating weddings,
village life, sweet little tended goats,
and other poorly armed triumphs of the human spirit,
While the funders of the aircraft
sit at home and pay up like cash machines,
like ATM's powered by devilishly cheap hamburger sandwiches,
forgetting everything instantly
if they knew anything to begin with.
some of the cash machines can even cheer loudly,
thanks to a special sonic App that responds to the sight of blood
and children's tears.

Freedom is living in Utah
where the leaders are strange
but do not shoot you for adultery,
they sanctify it.

Freedom is a country that shoots
Only the male adulterers,
and what a small and unpopulatable country that would be,
with a surplus of guilt-ridden females
and gay men.

Freedom, possibly, is
being aware of the presence at all times
of other caring people,
near and abroad,
and not feeling this deep
Sense of terrorized uncertainty and hopeless serfdom
under the yoke
of whatever it is that sets the Policy of Set
here in the homeland
and sends the boys and babies and succulent pre-pubescents into the trenches,
if they’re lucky.

Freedom is Tennessee,
Where I live and can roam among a vast federal sanctuary of bright
Wilderness, healthy at this point still...
Tennessee, a state of being known
for rags to riches,
Dolly Parton and Andrew Jackson,
a land of unlimited churches and limited taxes,
that worships a weekend contest
organized around a bladder of pig's flesh
and the basic principles of mindless warfare.
A place that once belonged to fierce and noble Indians,
but now to property-owners and renters,
just as fierce and noble,
and armored in a thick layer of fat,
fat on ground ungulate
and hoarded revenue,
fat on chubby mindless political notions,
fatally fat, fat
with extremely fat buttery daughters
and over-fed dogs.

I'm free, free, free at last,
you great Tubby bastard,
to be fat.

Dear Mr. Lebron James

Dear Mr. LeBron James,

With all due reverence, sir, this is not a fan letter. You are a fine basketball player, true, and world-renowned. Your physical talents are wondrous. But such fame and wondrous ability mean nothing if you continue this way, meek and quiet about politics as you have been, when the people of the United States are in need of a moral savior from the sports world.

It is clear that we can’t count on moral leadership from our politicians. We could literally have an all-star game right now between only those Congressmen who have been ousted from office for gross corruption, thievery, kickbacks, refrigerator-banking, fornication with prostitutes and members of the same sex while claiming heterosexuality, etc. Those who cleverly remain or have not yet been nabbed for buggery and bribery are right now making a great show of a meaningless debate on precisely which way the federal government will gorge itself and its moneyed industrial constituents on the criminally inefficient health care resources of the country, while calling the feast, once again, good for the working classes whom they have wavered between neglecting and poisoning for the past thirty years. They may be doing this only to seem humane or reasonable in advance of the next (surprise!) cooked-up ridiculous reason---this time offered by the Hope and Change Administration---to begin bombing select countries of petrochemical value, who knows? (I don't know, because I am left to figure nearly everything out for myself. One can scarcely trust the collected news media, after all, and without the press in a democracy, we are like so many ignorant, land-bound serfs, you might agree. As some smart carper once said, "the challenge for American newspapers is not to stay in business, it is to stay in journalism.") Or they may be pandering to our health care concerns to show us what a very humane Nanny State looks like, before the implementation of the ulterior Draconian Fascist State they have been patiently planning for generations as we tilled the fields, drove the trucks, served and consumed the meaningless filth of capitalism, and generally wiped our asses with everything good and virtuous. Have you noticed, Mr. James, that in America, under every rock is a magic serpent, coiled within...and coiled about with...the lobes of the symbolic, fetishized, human hybrid brain, and spinal column, and topped by its sacred pineal gland? The caduceus of the master medical priesthood? Yes, me too! We have similar predilections. And we both surely agree that we are lower on the great pole of societal being than anyone who wears an institutional robe. Let's get back to temporal business, though.

Bank and finance reform are not on any of our horizons, Mr. James, nor a reconsideration of the militarist and unconstitutional Bush policy doctrines still in effect, nor some gesture towards reducing the 10-25% unemployment rate, our needlessly huge prison population which is the shame of the world, or even the disgraceful murder rates of south central Los Angeles and other of our blighted cities. You and I have been treated immorally, Mr. James, like fools or blind geriatrics, since well before we were born. We have been scammed continuously by professionals whose great-grandparents were great grifters, themselves.

It is also clear that never before have professional athletes held so much influence over the American mind. We actually subsidize you and your stadiums and facilities from middle school through the pros. We see you everywhere and are saturated with news coverage of your silliest private antics. You relentlessly haunt our culture from dusk till dawn, from winter until fall. And it is worth pointing out that our multitude of officials desperately want us to be distracted from their misdeeds and their growing acquisition and abuse of power, which makes you athletes very useful, indeed. You are one of the highest-paid employees of the Department of Bread and Circuses, Mr. James. But your relationship with our government and your handsomely purchased silence are just symbolic. There is nothing in your current contract that forbids you from speaking out when your government is, say, guilty of devious crimes to include coups and bogus terror attacks, or unspeakably cynical negligence in the face of natural disasters, at least, or complicity in the murder of high level political actors judged too anti-establishment. I am inclined to think JFK, MLK and Leo Ryan were not the last politicians to die under awfully questionable circumstances, in America.

Two NBA players did murmur out against the second heat of the 9-11 Wars for Revenge and Expansion: Misters Foyle of the Warriors and Nash of the Suns, some years ago. In the distant past, athletes were sometimes known to pipe up without an undignified and unmanly fear of losing endorsements that could only make them marginally more obscenely wealthy, but it is possible that these political athletes of old spoke out precisely because they weren’t paid much, and had lots less to lose. Still, Olympic medals are quite valuable at any time, and such symbols were once famously exchanged by black American athletes for the right to make necessary, radical political statements in a time of unjust slaughter-war and domestic repression, just as the Heavyweight Title of the world was once given up in protest. That may be why your own generation of disc-hurlers and bladder-bouncers and flingers is paid such extravagant salaries, by comparison: you appear to be the beneficiary of an astronomical hush-money scheme, so valuable are your services.

There’s a comfortably sitting belief here that sometimes wars are good for economies. Well we are already waging two, at least, and the economy is in the sewer, with a chance of near-collapse. But we both know that some specific, highly-connected sectors of our economy do extremely well in times of war. So at best we are sending soldiers abroad to play deadly dodge ball in support of a hallucination; the worst is almost unprintable.

I’m writing to you because I know how much power you have over my strange country, and because I am one of those people who is completely luke-warm when it comes to Obama and his quaint platform of Hope and Change and Bad-mouthing poor Kanye West, recognizing as I do that our government has continued apace with its elitist, toxic policies and war crimes, even though we are supposed to have left all that behind with the dreadful orator and zero, G. W. Bush, and his mercenary, red-handed handlers. I respect your proven skills at the 3 and 4 over Obama's skillful posturing at the 1 and 2.

Mr. James: Take a stand and join the 9-11 Truth movement or something insanely brave and meaninglessly symbolic like that. From your towering platform tell people about shadow government or, say, the proven and seemingly ineradicable link between the legitimate economy and the black and narco-economies, between intelligence agencies and international drug dealing. Start there. Because these issues are wonderful heuristic devices, and they contain answers and questions that necessarily cover all the political issues and themes under the sun and its worshipers. Wear a black wrist band and throw that hand up after every dunk. If you were to get yourself disappeared, even, imagine the galvanizing effect it would have on the sleepy political will of the American people. At the very least, please make a public declaration that the Global War on Terror is a terrorist fraud and that we should be suspicious of rulership, and not one another and foreigners, so much.



***Editorial Update, July 8, 2010, free-agency season.***

The basketball player known alternately as "King James," "LBJ," and "The Chosen One," has just completed his amusing round of fat-headed playfulness with the NBA fans and GM's of the universe, by choosing to go play for some expansion team on the dirty prong of clubbery and cocaine-huffing known as Florida. As we all understand, Florida and especially Miami, that trans-shipment point of most of the CIA's incoming cocaine, is a filthy place without a shred of virtue or value beyond its vast drug profits. In opting to go play for one of this narco-kingdom's miserable NBA upstarts, Mssr. James has chosen the lowest road possible. It is surely the quickest route to a Scurvy reputation. Americans are supposed to be unanimously opposed to predatory capitalism and unseemly excesses. But for some reason they have not yet voted to eliminate Florida from the union. So now, considering how we worship sporting events and their never-ending seasons, it will be quite unthinkable to eradicate the seeping member of Florida from the American body at large; we adore our celebrities far more than we abhor our filthy grasping dynasties, one learns from reading newspapers. There are a great many Pro ballers in Florida, just as there are a great many strippers.

So it is proper and meet that the author of the above letter to Mssr. James rescinds all the sentiments detailed. If the man from Akron wants to become King of Weaseldom, to conserve his niggling NBA salary wealth within Florida's undemocratic tax system and reject the chance to join one of several reputable teams that might require him to play the game with a spine, then it should be accepted as true that he will never care one tiny whit about ethical political matters. Whosoever shall go play for Riley with those other All-stars cannot have a moral viewpoint, and shouldn't be expected to ever raise his voice beyond anything other than a meek whisper for more endorsements and the advice of Warren Buffet.



***Hot-headed Addendum, June 9, 2010***

This letter from Cavaliers owner Dan Gilbert is a fine case study of the insane degree to which America takes its sports fetish.

http://www.nypost.com/p/sports/more_sports/cav_owner_mad_as_hell_HfxsByEfoS5vIvMpFKoeZN

It is the kind of childish and spiteful venom rarely seen outside of Congress, and Mr. Gilbert will live to regret his ego-driven, mass public indulgence in hasty pudding, just as Warren Buffet's little buddy will regret his own unseemly public feast. Because there is simply nothing wrong with the South Bitch leaving his "hometown" Cleveland team after seven years and repeated failures. In and of itself the move is just business. But the manner of LeBum's announcement and the fact of his choosing "To take his talents to South Beach" are what really do stink, and surely are what drove the Cavs owner to this petulant madness.

But anyway you slice it, LeBum the South Bitch sneered at the soul of basketball for an extended marathon of several weeks, pretending uncertainty, as happy as a dog rolling in shit who has just gobbled the chickens in the coop without anyone the wiser.

You see, the soul of basketball exists in New York City, and nowhere else. The city itself is sheer madness and her people accordingly insane, but one does not piss on the soul of basketball, for anything. The fertile female Mother-soul of New York City, (the world's greatest and arguably most aggrieved city) even the Big Bitch in the harbor herself, prepared the matrimonial bed for you beginning last summer. It was done with ritual and undisguised care. She lay waiting for you, totally in surrender, and you chose to go have a ten-year orgy in Miami with some mindless club tramps with huge butts. You may be a big fool, a typical modern American to whom winning and dominance and gross sensualism is everything, but you are not so stupid that you will fail to realize what you did and how shabbily you pulled it off. You may think just like a good market-raping capitalist, like your friends Jay-Hovah and Mr. Buffet, but the majority do not. We dislike narcissism, uneven fields, and cowardice. It will eventually sink into your fat pirate's skull that you have done something deeply metaphysically wrong, and that your reputation will now drag behind you like a diseased carcass for the rest of your days, despite your excellent genes and titles.

I had a dream of you pissing on Ground Zero in Manhattan last night, but you were squatting as you did this, and you were accompanied by the Queen of England, and you were begging her to piss on you. And there you were, guzzling the royal piss of monarchy as the shrieking mob gathered at the rim of the pit.

*****Disinterested update, today: Lebron James is now entering his second season of Rebirth....in playing for his Hometown Cleveland Cavaliers, a team named in theory after a class of steel-encased aristocrat inbreeders who practiced the tradition of raping the virgin brides of their land-tilling male serfs on the very night of their lowly wedding ceremonies. It was good enough for Charleton Heston and it's good enough for Lebron James.

Thwarted

the disgusting whimpering
will continue forever through
human history,
of the people who have
been mangled by a very particular and technical
kind of Love,
and it is like a
wailing chorus of
grief-mad breast-tearers
back of Humanity's Act,
of blubbering tearers of hair
and gibbering askers of
the most easily answered questions.
love-lorn snivelers
writhing prostrate in their beds,
asking why? Again and again,
like an obnoxious, over-indulged toddler.
This constant howl of love-agony
is the sound of those numberless wounded
egos, hearts, and egos
who have fucked up
the best thing they had ever tasted, imagined, glimpsed shared,
somehow...
but which they fucked up
in the span of one tyrannical week or so
purely by using text messages and the internet for "communication,"
doing so as if compelled to
ruin it quickly and savagely,
and in such a maddening way as to
match the dizzy heights of the early glad drunkenness
with the filthy depths of
mournful, stunned confusion
that only come with brutal overnight termini,
and some vile text-duels.
Yes, boy, that's right:
keep on sending her messages,
keep stuffing those sausages for the Passover feast.

In this, we are wisely counseled
to never use gadgetry
to express real human emotions,
should we possess either.

No more room for debate

Well and there you have it. We are left with nothing to debate, when it comes to government, politics, civics, and "the media"---this last being indispensable to the first three, and those being once very important, long ago, before the advent of telecommunications and the many holograms that herd and haunt us from incubator to cell. Yes the whole thing has been canceled and the forum abolished. Still the debate will drone and seep on like the effluvia of a dead body continuing for a bit after life has expired. The corpus jerks, and twitches, and farts out its opinion on tax and monetary and immigration policy, and also the just, proportional use of force in an era of shifting moral compass points, fraught with devious new perils such as Islamic Terrorism and rogue states with nuclear power, and the demonic face of Wall Street's and the City of London's high seas capitalism having now revealed itself.

Though it is truly neither needed, seemly, or germane, the debating will continue. It may please one to linger there at the shabby podium of their moral and intellectual conceit, declaiming, but the wisest of us will not pay attention to the act. There are too many worthless opinions, for their own empty, unsupportable, solipsistic sake. And too many talking heads, with not a single feeling heart left beating and unbled, to power these heads with something useful. Some of us, the wise girls and guys, will ignore the twaddle of the debating society as it gasps its last convincingly flapdoodle arguments. We will be steady fattening up or building muscle, stockpiling canned goods, picking our teeth with brittle old arguments, roll-eyeing the metal-flecked horizon for terror sprees. Some of us will opt out, masturbating and wiggling and posing in anarchic fashions, bored by and angry at things one can't readily define. Inchoate, misdirected ennui and rage, you know.

All this argument about the trusty, naïve democrats vs. the cynical, adult neocons, and about the civil liberties they are tearing between them, about the moribund economy and the death throes of capitalism, herself---Peace be upon Her fat hysterical bosom---all of it is a sham, it has to be admitted here. The left-right discussion engineered by those controlling the limbs of Republicans and Democrats is broken and now without substance or good faith. It is a giant hamster's wheel powered by all of us who are willing. Having roughly as much traction and relevance is the hoary debate about the utility and rightness of Capitalism versus its contender-systems. But at least these discussions are philosophical, and can lead to some progress, or once could have. Taken as a whole, these broad contentions may be less provably hysterical, farcical shams than the one designed special by the Devil’s cartoonists to root about in our current daydreams and lay the eggs of nightmares in our scarce happy moments until we rely in whimpering abject paranoia on the State: Namely, the Daily-polished sham about the vaporous Osama bin Laden and his combustible hairy horde. But such is our main theme or narrative device this decade---it is suitable to our immaturity as a people--- and we must accept its evil childishness and efficacy. We have cashed in our Nazis and Communists for Moslem Terrorists, we are taught. As every civilized westerner possesses a mirror to recognize themselves, they need a gun to recognize others.

But as we all in the tiny province of book-readers and critical thinkers know, this hokum-theme of the Dark Black Islamic God of Terrorism that devours everything not monitored biometrically from a central computer, and belches out tazers and opium and dead Iraqis by the market-load, is just a script we had left over from the theater in Afghanistan, and have now re-worked. Recall that once, Rambo himself fought on the side of the Taliban, in real life. At that time they were Muslims of an obviously more noble stripe---"anti-communist"---and have only since 1986 or so come to symbolize all that is very violently opposed to America and its proprietary catalog of virtues. To my lurid and book-smart way of thinking, all of it amounts to a smutfilm anachronism---the thin dialogue intro to the porn fuck scene that we all know is coming and paid to see, the intro which modern pornography has now dispensed with. But propriety demands these courtly overtures still, in global politics. There must be a distinct and intelligible attack, broadcast in reel-time for the consumption of the TV-fed masses, if there is to be an endless, indistinct and unintelligible "war on terror," as inevitably insane of a military delusion as such an enterprise must be, and unpopular with the plebes and troops. This kind of story can't possibly survive more than one season without a good, catchy "pilot" or "lead."

The pornographic farce, the endless serial situation-tragedy of the established view that radical Islamic terrorism poses an authentic, existential threat to America and free societies is a lewd, disgraceful charade considered necessary for some kind of grand mechanical maintenance of the proper direction of global politics. This farce will stoke the wrath of our children and cause them to suffer and die prematurely, while cursing our names and the soul of Man. There was never any intention at all of cluing us in, we in the masses, as to what the real narrative was, and who played its key roles. Simply because we are such bit actors, and are considered by our directors to be more like beasts or batteries, than people. This never meant, however, that an informed view of these plans and realities was beyond the lowly bit actor, you and I. It just takes work, and we must do the work ourselves, and the reward for the work is often only a tentative and weary understanding, and sometimes depressing.

Some of us fear that a day will come when our children can no longer be both fat and stupid, but will have to make a choice between the two. Like the children in all the other lands, they will be degraded and made sick and to them the only juicy rib marinade recipe worth considering may involve cannibalism. Something has to change and somebody will have to give, or these Western children will have bellies fat with worms and gas and not cheeseburger sandwiches and microwaved and mutated genes and sucrose. They'll be rounded up in broad daylight and they will inevitably lack the sense and the command of the language to protest with anything more than a simpering, snot-mouthed “whatever.” The joke, for them, even then, will still perhaps be on somebody else, as it always was.

So what we are served in the mainstream news is fat bottomless sound, the rhythmic beating of hollow plastic vessels. It is believed by our gentlemen planners, the management class of Olympia and beyond, that if we did not have the constant appearance of a valid and worthy, civilized debate about all these managed controversies, we would focus, perhaps, on the crumbling of the world around us. We might attend to our own suffering and madness. These interminably broadcast feuds at once preoccupy and divide us from one another, and allow us to feel we are participating in a cherished system based on free will and democratic principles of mindful participation, of comprehension of the issues by even the grass-roots levels of society. We all know a free media equals a live democracy. But if one is working at a brothel and chooses to call it a hospital, it remains a place for sucking off and not succor.

All these arguments and schisms are silly distractions, as they are intended to be. It is true, granted, that human beings need to beat one anothers' ideas into submission on a sort of regular basis, just to keep the species vital or whatever. But this constant circular bickering is different; it is neither random nor beneficial nor productive, and would be inconceivable without the knavish political class America has allowed to breed in its capital. The arguments are not worth our time and they are rendered in idiot’s terms. Who frames the debate and where, if anyplace, is the broader moral context acknowledged? Few people have ever seen a modern congressman engage in self- or national criticism on any real level. Hardly anybody knows what a depleted uranium shell is. Dishonesty and crony-capitalist self-service have been the order of the twentieth century, I can report to you, and it has gotten measurably worse since that day of improbable dive-bombings and skyscraper collapses along our east coast.

It is a basic, undeniable fact that American politicians and political figures are assassinated if they go off mark or become a danger to the fundaments of this system. This reality of snuffed civic leaders is simply not subject to debate, any more than are the realities of the larger and more deadly deceptions of our national security state and its intelligence agencies, and the ways in which both have sought, practiced, and described wars. But as a nation, we haven't even dealt with Pearl Harbor---let alone 9-11---or the murderers of Abraham Lincoln---let alone JFK and King and Wellstone's murderers. Still, no competent single adult in their private mind buys the official, court explanation of the Kennedy murders, most significantly. And that is why the individual adult, who is so often smart and decent, must be smashed savagely and regularly in the head, and made to feel like a vulnerable little pawn, and discouraged from looking into matters too deeply. The state, the public thing, the mass herd mind, the central authority, has even made perfectly sighted people blind. Blind in broad daylight, incapable of seeing cataclysmic events that happen right in front of them and which are then replayed forever. A president shot here, a congressman or three's deadly plane crash there, three towers collapsing into their footprint on one day, delighting bankers and land-developers and unprosecuted assassins and stock-shorters everywhere. In all of that is an implicit warning we all comprehend: believe or at least regurgitate the movie version of events as reported by the pillar Institutions, or in real life fear the cattle prod and the double axe and the prison rape, because you're just a worm, a helpless little fucking worm laborer.
There is no difference, of course, between republicans and democrats except, in the much-quoted words of one famous, impotent, stinking little moderate activist-cum-politician, "for the velocity at which they fall to their knees when corporations come calling." But what that little fellow said was sincere on a level more lewd than he intended: they are falling to their knees not in honorific subjection, but to sexually gratify their various hidden masters, to suck them off, and these hidden, suckled masters (and they are hidden and very well so, for the purposes of a legitimate democratic system obviously have no use for hiding) have come not to request obeisances here and there, but to demand continuous and already-owed fealties and fellatio from these prostitutes whom they have owned from nearly their beginnings. So it is less an on-going exchange marked by known imbalances than by the playing out of accepted roles of Lord and serf, or more accurately, of Master and slave overseer, of Priest and Temple Whore. It is a dirty courtship all around, and around. Ultimately, one politician may be assassinated just as easily as another, although the record almost suggests those on the “left” are bigger and slower targets, and therefore in the possession of some inherent moral advantage. But really they are the same in their dosage of corruption, having only different self-views: in the Senate, at least, both of them are graft-happy jackasses, but one is a delusional psychotic and claims to be an elephant.

These lowly cross-dressers suck the same wolf’s tits, their freezers are capable of storing the same amount of money. It might not even make a difference that the so-called Republicans (those of “the public thing,” and so, our own Golem, frightful to consider!) always number among their own camp the most conniving and merciless hounds of the devil, the greater number by far of murderers, child molesting child pornographers, snuff film enthusiasts, and, of course, sadistic closet faggots, that most dangerous of all psychologies, as you will eventually see. It may not make a difference, mind you, because the Democrats never call them on it---they never raise hue or fuss about the pedophilia, drug-dealing, or wild sacrifical buggery of the reactionary wing of America. Some of us know about this parallel world of closet-politics; the evidence of this Western Oligarchic Cult of the Phallus Worshippers and Child-murderer-buggerers is abundant throughout time and so is now virtually impossible to suppress in this digital age. And most of us talk openly of what a generalized stage-show it all is, almost as if this frank confession is a bluff American birthright or absolution from complicit guilt…but somehow, most of us still apparently require the taking of sides, if only rhetorically. "I am a moderate republican, used to be a semi-moderate Democrat with a libertarian sensitivity, and what are you, sir? I must know. I must know where you stand."

But is there another, more homely and basic reason that we share in the charade? Politics seems to be like a grand soap opera for intellectuals and those who think of themselves as mature. We seem to take great interest in some form of high political drama which we may identify as “news” or “current/global events,” and uniquely Human, one has to assume, when one looks around and can’t find a chimpanzee CNN, or a monkey-produced New York Times, or repeated gorilla wars waged in poorer monkey countries where most of the illegal drugs are produced, at once-inefficient levels, until the stronger ape occupiers came with better fertilizer. Why do we even care about “politics,” as it is known, when we all suspect it of being totally, irretrievably corrupt, and at worst and commonly wondered aloud, as evidence of the death of God?


I suspect we crave the certainty that our own small pile of shit adds to a much greater pile, that our foulness is normal. So we join this or that party, vote such and such a way. We divorce ourselves from risk and responsibility, and then invest in the market, even if it is our pensions, or ---if you'll pardon me---our souls. If Bernie Madoff and Jim Cunningham and the many pestilential presidents of the world can do it, so can I? It is a confused formulation but it has the logic of self-worship. Let us all have cake while we can, and woe be unto the terrorism-minded who would obstruct our fun or freedom, or point out that we are covered in shit and live in ca-ca castles and are eating poop-pastries with nothing more than a shit-eating grin to our excrement-caked names.

Things have gotten quite serious, I’m afraid, and we should all be talking about other things. Anything but ourselves and our senseless dung idols and threadbare political notions. Most of the people I see have no interest in books or substantive, adult, literate politics, and are even a bit proud of it, in the same way that more and more people are a bit proud of being callous and cunning in their treatment of others, like robots designed for competition or battle. They are involved in their own predictable, simulator lives and their confusions have overtaken them and I am gushing with pity for them all, but it takes a while for the gushing to begin because they act like such self-conscious, hostile little lab mice and it's contemptible. Why don’t we think and talk of other things? The reality of things is not uninteresting. I can see that, sadly, the personal reality that most of us experience is fatally boring and devoid of potential, and that beneath the outer layer is a lot of space waiting to be filled. But outside of us, simple us, there is almost always a very interesting collective story. And thankfully, behind the conventional storybook, newspaper reporting of these stories, there is so often something wild and silly and nearly unmentionable. And I say thankfully because if the world's problems could really be explained by conventional ideas of conflict, human nature, and resource struggle, we would be lost and I would vote for our extermination. But the real truth is methodically hidden, and an essential part of that truth is this: Human beings are decent and reasonable, and in order to drink one another's blood as we are doing in so many ways right now on earth, we must be trained that way, and misguided.

There is actual truth in the idea, put forth in the movie, "Men In Black" and mentioned often by knowledgeable conspiracy logicians, that the seedy tabloids marketed in your check-out aisles contain more than a little of what is real, of what is considered taboo or untouchable in established media circles. But these magazines can't cover everything, and their objective may be to force us to throw out any babies with the bathwater. Psy-ops type stuff, you dig. One suspects that the first man targeted in the anthrax attacks, a photo editor for the tabloid, The Sun, was not just randomly selected. He is the only person targeted by those hate letters who actually died, as he was not protected by an elaborate system of letter-openers like congressmen are.


Now take the seemingly small-time story of Harvey Milk, resurrected from his murdered state by Mr. Sean Penn in an academy award-winning movie show. Milk and the San Francisco mayor’s murders are both rather apparently connected to the fallout from the Jonestown Massacre of 1977, the infamous White-Messiah-and-black-folks-and-Kool-Aid incident that went so horribly wrong and resulted in the deaths of over 900 people and over 250 children. Or was it 450 people? The government somehow erred so drastically in their initial death tally that one can’t be sure, as one can simply never be sure in horrible cases of messianic human wickedness and African-American mental frailty like these. But the point here is not simply that black folks are more apt to participate in mass suicide, presumably, if the poison is mixed with one of their favorite drinks, the point here is that nowhere in the movie show or in popular media sources will you find any connections made between San Francisco political heavyweight and vote-wrangler Jim Jones and the tragic and mostly unpunished murders of Milk and Moscone, or for that matter, between Jones and the CIA. Connections which are not hard to discover even with casual research. Connections that scream out, "shadow government," and, "destroy the television."

Yes, the more tenacious the investigator, the wilder and seemingly less credible the Truth to be discovered. This rule applies even more provocatively to stories and incidents of the high-level, influential sort, such as with Iran-Contra, or the various antagonisms that have led countries into war in the modern age: the cassus belli which, very often, objective history eventually looks back on and disproves as being counterfeit, and shady in the extreme. Remember the Alamo, and the Maine, and Pearl Harbor, and…well, forget about more recent events like the Gulf of Tonkin and those babies and the incubators In Iraq, and the stock-trading and military drills on 9-11, and those vanishing WMD’s. Just sit back and relax.


And so, what is there to debate, in all seriousness, if we are to take ourselves seriously and not just go on chirping and babbling? I propose we debate the Tragic Events, 9-11, the Great Occult Mega-Ritual of September, the Dying Harvest Season, 2001. There is a lot of purchase there for argument, a lot of meat.

Naturally the most appropriate thing anyone has said yet about the tragic events was spoken by Adolph Hitler or one of the chief dead Nazis subordinate to him, like Goebells or probably Hess, his weird intellectual champions and court metaphysicians. It is the famous, much-quoted statement about the size of the lie, and how the greater the size, the more believable the lie will be in the eyes of the public, or more descriptively, the masses. Consider that the Nazis were much more of a secret society than a political movement or party, and that secret societies are based on strict hierarchies and their essential devotion to exclusive knowledge, to rites of secrecy and important, doctrinal ideas veiled in allegory. They knew how the whole feverish conception of the master Aryan Race and its mythic resurgence after such hard, hard times as Germany had suffered, could be used like a great golden key to unlock the subconscious mind of the German people and prod its exposed softness into a perverted, docile submission and complicity. They assured the white folks of how splendid and preternaturally destined for greatness they were, while they leveled all blame for any of their suffering at the feet of the alien race among them, the eternal “scapegoat,” the “sacrifice.” They literally seduced the people when they were at their weakest. They put on the most marvelous show ever seen since the Romans, perhaps, with parades and cinema and great public displays of vigor, artistry and technological exuberance. They may have topped even us, and unquestionably they did so in this organizing of glorious state spectacles that hypnotized and brought the masses together---something we could never do simply because of our massive geography, but which we are improving upon with the advent of satellites and instant communications and strange new psychological and pharmaceutical operations. But there is something so much more strange and profound about what the Nazis were doing, as if they were suffering pangs of crazed spiritual pain and mania that went improperly diagnosed as simple sociopathology. None of the history I was taught even begins to get at their bizarre mystical beliefs, how essentially religious a movement the Nazis represented and possibly still do on some levels. For that matter, none of the history I was taught probes very deeply into the documented and irresistible fact that the Roman Church, Western and American Capital, and western power brokers of especially fascinating lineage all funded, enabled, or capitalized off of the Nazis, perhaps because they get to write the history books that you and i eventually do not learn from.

The Nazis were one giant, occult, multi-layered lie, yes, but that did not stop us from hiring so many of them and giving them very good lives in various laboratories doing the most important research and development on projects that most citizens would roundly disapprove of, right up until the present day. These men are no longer Nazis because they were always men of Reason, men of Science, and because they are paid in American dollars. The mad Nazi scientist who tested scalpels and diseases on live human subjects ceased being a Nazi the very moment we nuked Japan, twice.

So....Nazis infesting NASA, the freemasons cutely embedding flagrant archetypal plans and symbols in the layout of America’s capital city, the Pentagon being the obvious heart of a Pentagram, the highest stones in the occultic Washington monument being the formal Masonic stones, who entertains such bizarre notions, what sort of person accords them any time in his busy schedule? I have become sidetracked here…I was making a precise case for the events of Non-11 being the only political matter worth talking about, at least until that point when it is talked about quite enough for its desserts, and dealt with. Then maybe we can debate the illegitimate parentage of G. W. Bush, and the mysteries of the great American rocket scientist and devil worshipper Jack Parsons, and the weird role played by L. Ron Hubbard and Aleister Crowley in this great love rhapsody.

Making Sense of the Tragic Ritual Events

"We need to get some broad based support, to capture the public's imagination... So we have to offer up scary scenarios, make simplified, dramatic statements and make little mention of any doubts... Each of us has to decide what the right balance is between being effective and being honest." - Stephen Schneider, Stanford Professor of Climatology, lead author of many IPCC reports, and member of the public opinion-manufacturing class.








I remember when I first realized the transformative power of magical mass murder. With high definition clarity I still recall the day I, personally, was forced to accept the ancient historic dictum which states that mass-scale, violent death will unite a people. Butchery forges unity, goes the implacable logic. Indeed, since then I have never been allowed to forget this maxim of the ages, not even for a single day. The murder, and the "Change," was that massive.

The year was 2001 and it was morning and I was sleeping in bed alone and it was not my time to be mass-murdered, thankfully. But this was not because I had never crossed or offended a radical Muslim. Rather, my security was intact only because I did not work at the headquarters of the most powerful military force known to history. And my security was further assured because I didn't live in the heart of world finance capital, at the nerve center of modern civilization. I did not wash dishes or prepare food or spreadsheets for the barons of MorganStanleySmithBarneyDeanWitter at the World Trade Center complex, and so I was not confined inside the towering infernos like the guts of Wicker men, to await televised doom while my superiors notified everyone that all was safe and to remain at our posts, strangely enough, even though one of the twin towers had just been dive-bombed, and the property had been subject to near-apocalyptic terror attacks within the past decade...also, despite the political leadership of the city having been forewarned of a distinct chance of terrorism during that month, as were the officials in all major American cities, as hindsight, leaks, and the remnants of American investigative journalism have all revealed to us now. Yes I was especially fortunate not to make my living at what would soon colorfully and with no respect for numberless Japanese be called "Ground Zero."


But the grotesque public bloodshed of that morning was a mortal shock to my system and my world-view, anyway. To this day, I have not recovered from the distress; the implications of that evil event weigh heavily on me even as I view the succession of fascinating reality shows, political assassinations, ridiculous unsolved bio-weapons attacks, various flu epidemics, bizarrely smooth martial law exercises coincident to massively mishandled natural disasters, cutely contrived 2012 manias, and neatly engineered financial death spasms that have rolled out since then. You may talk in unworthy, crippling platitudes all you please about how the world changed on September 11, and argue as to the nature of that change, but there is no doubt that humanity passed through some kind of final, irreversible crucible that morning. A great existential doorway whose significance I can barely approach describing was entered, and then shut with a grim, absolute clique behind us, but we were only dimly aware of it all, dazed as we were by our fine television educations and the brilliant fireworks display of the mass midtown execution. But we still knew something big had happened, even beyond the simple materialist plane and we would have felt it even if we had not been instructed relentlessly to feel something along those lines by the official experts, with their graphic bombpoints about “deep-seated rage,” “blow-back,” “asymmetrical jihadi threats,” and "The Clash of Civilizations," etc.


Until that Tuesday, the world was, allegedly, based on a certain vast but still predictable model of Power relations and What one could expect on a sunny Tuesday morning while you were at work. Over the span of two hours, that model collapsed in a series of explosions that will shock, awe, and terrorize us until death or we receive microchips that may allow us to forget. Before lunchtime, thousands of essentially innocent human lives were burned out and the once sturdy foundations of civilization trembled over and over, every time the crazy and improbable collapses aired on world TV. Thousands of lives were immolated, burnt as public offerings to an old and treasured god of Fatness and Internal Peace. The one visceral reaction I immediately felt and have never forgotten was the terrifying certainty that my country, quite naturally and fitting its native belligerence and egoism, was going to nuke somebody. We had always needed precious little provocation to enter long, costly, murderous conflicts throughout our democratic history. So this arrogant, unlawful deed was surely going to merit swift nuclear reprisal: a basic matter of the disproportionate use of American hegemonic force. I know History has striven to prove that when the Slave snaps and strikes Master, the Master responds with a lengthy, methodical aneurysm of rage and chops the slave in two, and rapes both the slave's daughter and young grandmother, and drags the slave's pieces all over the plantation, and then nukes Africa.

And we speak of an act of unimaginable cruelty and cowardice against the slave-master, yes, but also against civilians, after all. The putative jihadi aeronauts were in flagrant violation of the unspoken international gentleman’s agreement with regard to violence being appropriated only by the State, particularly wanton violence against civilians. I was very well-trained, I now realize, to have made a simple math calculation of the inevitability of nuclear revenge, just as many others may have done. We were being logical, in accordance with the Old Testament righteousness of our national defense philosophy as long instructed to us through action movies and history courses. But no nukes came or went. And though we opted not for Armageddon but instead for a distracted, clinical, never-ending war of occupation in certain Arab/Pashtun lands of petrochemical and opiate value, the drastic global (even moral and spiritual) importance of the day was permanently seared into our hides. We accepted the government's dictate that we were now involved in an endless war, if only because they made it quite clear that the Statue of Liberty had been Raped and Sodomized. Atta and his numerologically sound gang of 19 had left her gibbering, with a punctured uterus.

We were given vague descriptions of our epic new military purpose, but detailed, hourly accounts of the Rape.

As we watched that morning, and practically daily over the next few years, the continuous video display of iconic civilization collapsing and being back-stabbed by religious savages who had hijacked the very symbols of modern human progress and cunning and turned them against us---those black, misogynistic, Buddha-blasting Mohameddans---something was burned out of us and something was burned in. We were being held down and branded. And the burn was felt all over the world because mass murder, gloriously televised/repeated mass murder, especially, is a human thing.


Observe that, like lighting through a box of brand new matches, like a laser through unsightly belly fat, the fever of patriotism began to burn its way into our scared, scrofulous American minds. Throughout my life, the myopic reptile region of the public brain where the nationalist/patriot sentiment breeds, had seemed dormant. It slept and shrank in size in the wake of the Kennedy assassinations and Vietnam and the general dismemberment of the 1960s. It continued to doze fitlessly through the 80's and 90's, sated on cocaine and technology and cheap manufactured goods. But following 9-11 the reptile stirred. The whole country mourned hysterically at the feet of the Statue of Liberty. The Big Stone Hermaphrodite of World Freemasonry cast her torch’s light over the whole of the human race in the race’s outrage and sadness. “Will these Islam-o-fascists never slake their thirst for the blood of free peoples?” she cried out to the Atlantic. We mourned for the murdered innocents of the global finance sector---not just Americans were extinguished in the steel wicker men of Manhattan, very importantly, it was the World Trade Center burned down---and we prayed to the flag of these United States as we had not done since the yellow horde stole into Pearl Harbor and mercilessly bombed our garrison troops. We slobbered furiously in our pews, and from our tears sprang brand-new UAV and crowd-control technologies, and whole new Offices within the NSA, whole new Czar-level cabinets and divisions of security to gap the enormous holes through which the fanatics had flown their jets of tremendous, unforeseen terror. In the fury of our prayers it is an historic fact that we failed to notice the face-slapping peculiarity of these newer, ever less ruly terror attacks, and the peculiar likeness they bore to Pearl Harbor. How could our predominant, vaunted military have been caught so disastrously with its pants at its ankles? The Towers, yes, maybe, but the Pentagon?


This would have been the most sensible question for any sensate people to ask, but there were more pressing concerns to deal with, such as grief, and the delectable justice of killing the unshaved foreign zealots who could only have been to blame for such a hideous crime that no white man of this age or any other could ever stoop even to imagining it inside a think tank, or in a Presidential Daily Brief, or in a spy novel by Tom Clancy, or in an unpromising pilot episode for an X-Files spin-off television series to air six months before the act itself, called "The Lone Gunmen."


It would have been a very, very sensible question to ask, yes, but our household God, Television, urged us instead to focus on the image of those dying towers. To watch those wage earners plunging to a brutal, quick death on the pavement to avoid a slow, agonizing, real-time one in the flames, where they perceived they were on display high above the world as the world watched and didn’t do shit to save them save train cameras on them, just as we keep filming as we murder the endless thousands in the name of these past mass-murdered of ours, and do nothing beyond casting a hollow vote for a smirking, too-cultivated half-bred charlatan who chants “Change.” Television then urged us with its best New York Times-solemnity to listen to the Pentagon, which somehow could not protect itself from incompetent, box-cutting maniacs aboard a slowly advancing commercial airliner even after NYC had been attacked in such a manner an entire hour earlier---yes TV urged everyone to listen to this same Pentagon as it explained to us what had happened, and how it was going to avenge and protect us by attacking Afghanistan. (All opinion-makers would like for you to avoid the history of this country, Afghanistan, and what the Pentacle had done to foment discord and the “terrorist mentality” there. One can’t very well predict every single consequence of playing at the Grand Chessboard, they would have you believe. Vengeance trumps a nuanced, responsible assessment of history every time, and there will always be a future crisis to disguise a past misdeed, in our current system.)

So, rather than ask the questions any sensible, vigilant race of science-and-justice-minded monkeys would ask, we girded the Big Arsonist Bitch in the Harbor for war, any war of the defense department’s offering.

“My word, Doris. My word, those skyscrapers just collapsed in on themselves. It appears to be some kind of satanic miracle. These jihadis must be directly in league with the devil or else those buildings were wired with explosives. That or brought down by directed energy weapons but even our own military says it doesn’t have those yet, still in development, and we all know terrorists can’t steal our undeveloped directed energy weapons because that is a logical impossibility. And Doris, what am I to make of the attack on the Pentagon? The only forces known to Man that can enter that holy security airspace without an active, friendly transponder signal are a U.S. Military plane, (in which case it would be “unfriendly” or guided by a very forgetful pilot) or God or the Devil themselves. Even a completely ignorant and silly person could tell you that on a normal day any other kind of aircraft seriously risks being shot down by automatic missile barrages, let alone in the context of that morning’s events. We can satisfy ourselves that God did not perpetrate these crimes against the Pentagon. And we can rest utterly assured that no American would ever control-demolish expensive office buildings while thousands of other Americans were still toiling away inside them, even if there was an astronomical insurance policy payoff to consider. This leaves only Satan as our culprit, and he does seem to have taken numerological care to provide the best possible auspices for his plan by striking places with diabolical geometry, such as the Pentagon, which is the interior of a Pentagram, as we all know, and the "twin towers," so clearly evocative of the Tarot, and of those devilish freemasons' beloved twin towers of Jachim and Boaz. Plainly, Doris, this is the work of Lucifer and his numerology fixation and we must therefore attack Afghanistan.”

"..Why, Douglass, you're absolutely right."






Well, now, since the profoundly tragic events I have asked a number of such questions of my own inner Doris, my own heedless and complacent, worse half. I reached different conclusions than those above, but this is only because I am just a humble soul who values the truth. Since those first few shell-shocked months I have done copious research, writing, and thinking on the subject of 9-11, or, as I am forced to call it, “Non-11.” For me, it is just an elaborate and deeply unfortunate hoax, the first ultra-symbolic step in the unabating hoax we have experienced since then. I now consider the attacks to have been much closer to a religious ritual than solely a calculated act of political violence, which conventional theory only holds water when it is established that an authentic "Jihadi terror cell" attacked America, which is exactly as preposterous and unproven as to say that Skeletor or the Decepticons committed the September 11 atrocities. As Horrible as they were, the crimes are just as Fascinating---for all their veiled and half-apparent meanings and effects. Even if it is essentially true, it is not even responsible, in the final analysis, to say that Non-11 was purely an act of political violence that was hatched from within our intelligence network, because in the High Ritual, alchemical, occultic sense, it was far more than just political violence---but we cannot get into that right here because the meta-reality of Non-11-as-Ritual requires its own lengthy diatribe, or sermon, or essay, if you will, with proper esoteric documentation. Let it suffice for now that when I say "religious ritual," I am being entirely literal, and that it was a ceremony which necessarily involved human sacrifice.

The Tragic Events serve as a primer course in global para-politics, or “deep politics": the politics of the arcane, the Hidden, them subterranean Powers That Be. My own inquiries and resulting explanations kept tending towards the notion and reality of “secret government,” for which there is far more objective proof and academic literature than the name of the phenomenon suggests. "Doris" found it somewhat hard to believe at first. But we know that "Doris" is that side of ourselves who, in order to form a view of the world, watches one corporate version of television news as opposed to reading about “news” in a number of different journals. Doris is a person that appreciates dramatic statements that make little mention of doubts. Doris is emotional rather than critical; obedient to and trustful of authority, rather than willfully, intellectually independent and trusting mostly in the authority of personal logic and reason. Doris is selfish and lazy and takes the easy way out, a big part of which is surrendering one’s critical faculties to the eminent wisdom of government, media, and other forms of patriarchy and established order. Doing things Doris’ way results in a nearly constant siding with the views of the political ruling class, because it is either one way or the other in all matters political in America, and as the American media dutifully portrays it to you: it is either conservative or liberal, but only insofar as the gospel definitions are given to you. You can go either in a strictly defined left or right motion, but never forward or your own way, even if your way avoids all the ritual mass murders, and all the shit, villainy and lying. And your Doris may be named Derek, and that is fine.


But what side of the dialectic do you suppose is occupied by the men who attend these rituals photographed in these pictures? Do you suppose they are either Republican or Democrat? Both? Irrelevant? Do you imagine they have a chuckle over our slippery, infantile grasp of the dialectic?










And so it is with Doris' and Derek's ready-made American way, with respect to the events of Non-11: Doris is served up two rigid analyses of the terror attacks that are only superficially at variance, (both take as self-evident, a priori assumptions the guilt of rag-tag Islamic terrorist posses) and all the while there appears to be a much more coherent, logical, but deeply troubling analysis that is neither right nor left, but squarely in the gray middle. What has been pawned off on us as two essentially adult views of the events are no more than farcical and top-down-managed reactions. You have either the democratic, liberal view, which holds that we were the victims of our own just desserts on September 11, that is, the victims of “blowback” from our CIA’s unjust and cynical dealings in the middle east throughout the cold war era, (See: historical ideas avoided above, such as burping and suckling the incipient terrorist mastermind Osama Bin Laden, nee Tim Osmond); and then on the "other side" you have the raw-nerved, conservative, Republican view of the tragic events, which holds that these same vicious, irremediable Muslim blood-drinkers resent our privilege and our secular world system, and will not stop blowing themselves and everyone else up until they have the globe under an Islamic Caliphate, and put every Jew to the scimitar, stockpiling virgins all along the way, as is their well-known habit.

But both views---repetitively and formally encoded by a co-opted media once relied upon to question official positions and not merely reiterate them---both morally divergent views arrive at a suspiciously uniform moral, or immoral, conclusion: we must and will bomb the terrorists back to the Stone Age, starting in the fallow opium fields of Taliban-held Afghanistan. So really, both allegedly antagonistic sides of the American political spectrum are in 100% agreement on 9-11. Both sides first dispensed with any pretense at mounting a legally-based effort against whomever was responsible for the non-state, arbitrary mass murders, and both sides then rapidly assented to allowing Bin Laden to “escape into the tribal regions of Pakistan” (this in spite of the British forces already on hand in theatre, but told they could not begin the hunt until American forces got there, allowing the great Jihadi Weasel time to escape and publicly outraging British forces). Following these bizarre protocols, both Republicans and Democrats agreed to begin reseeding the soil of Afghanistan with the astronomically profitable poppy plant---or at least, their thorough dereliction of security responsibilities in that wrecked, poor country led conveniently to the revival of these, the world's most once-productive opium fields.

With respect to such crucial issues as 9-11 and the appropriate national response, such a condition as we have now of systemic, doubt-free Official Agreement above, contrasted against a widespread and known disagreement and distrust among the public below, presents a potentially scary scenario. It seems to me that there is a larger existential wicker man containing us all in America and beyond, and that many of us have been tricked into collecting the fuel for our own pyres.