mother will beat her padlock chest
and
procure in
outstretched forearms
a not-so-secret hidden book of the unrequited life lived in theory, more than action
so that I may
one day
immortalize her waeknesses in my own fated progeny

water errodes the most stubborn of stones
while the light padding of so many dewed feet
can crush soil into sediment
like berry-juice

unease

There’s the violet spotlights and the course clothe with the spindled ideograms. There’s a man playing harmonica. Just a man. I want to see ghosts of passionate dancers and fragile ideals sworn before my eyes. I want a glimpse of the fading vision crystallized for once in my presence, hoping with my close proximity, I could see poetry shape politics, my absent faith, my ambivalent sense of music and purpose. He says those infamous, foreboding words, like “Times they are a-changin.'” I remember the temptations of yester-year. ALL I think in response is they’ve changed and stilled and his yesterday is not even a memory to a child born after its time. There is disconnection and a faded grey man of 60 some years primed and tested. He sings in slurred syllables and guttural punctuations like a drunken prophet. How Indian country was taken over by the English Americans.

His name is Bob Dylan. Now he is an artist currently sponsored by columbia records, posing as a forgotten legacy we were all too busy idolizing and commodifying to listen to.

Individual A ” has all the hallmarks of a good brain soiled by the ‘education’ at some high-ranking U.S. school of politics and government. It’s quite a normal (mediocre, average) thing to want to belong to the herd, and so young students slowly learn to speak the speak and think the thoughts that will create the least amount of trouble for them. If they articulate these programmatic sound-bites well enough, some might even call them ‘leaders’ and encourage their further movement ‘ahead’ into the ranks of the ‘priestly caste’ who generate and regenerate the cultural and social norms of American society. This function is irreplacable for the majority of American humanity who have been taken in by that most divine form of slavery – namely ‘democratic liberalism’. In this system, and only in this system, do the slaves really believe that they are doing well by making money for their owners. In most, the slave knows he isn’t getting a fair shake, he senses the opposition of his drive to run his own life and that of his employer who wants to run it for him and to profit from it. But, the ‘democratic liberal slave’ is different: They crave it, they get up in the morning with a feeling of lack if they can’t grow some more wool for their shearers to shear. They happily saddle out to pasture and process the grass into wool and then placidly herd themselves into the shearing floor to give up their yearly harvest. And all they ask for in return are childish and impermanent ‘bobbles’. Like children and dogs, they can be placated and distracted by shiney toys. And on the political side, all they ask is to have a say in which shepherd will shear them this year, that they be allowed to ‘choose’ the manner in which they are stripped of their wool, though they never have control over who gets to keep it….

But they don’t care, their willing slaves, a slave-masters’ dream, and he knows it – he just keeps giving them all the stuff they need to placate their driving influences: John Thomas, Digestion, Cash, and Mother-in-Law….”

from xpaerimtlslaekv

crazy serious. always thwart the obvious and downplay the practical. because escapism is the artists’ last refuge. then i’ll wave my rainbow flag to no one and shout sentimental idiocies at the wide-mouthed sea. i’ll set sail for athens in all neo-classic splendor of one who cannot bear the modern standard of a life too fearful for its idiopathic disease

there is no atlantis. and there is no disease. this is only the exponential reality that has always been.
i want to be the allele with the mostest.
i think i’ve made myself a fine bland parka to hide in.
the passerby, passenger in limbo, ignoramus.
most of the observations in this generalized book of self-centered idioms and romanticisms can stick it where the rainbow men go.
if my thoughts were more pretentious i’d shit out descartes and nietzsche, too.