Fuck epistemology!

We’ll work it out, you’ll see.

On the other hand

so many things can kill you
dog-shit under finger-nails
wash carefully before dinner
plenty hot water frothy lather
watch yer step lawnmower bloody
afternoon no morning early or late
mowed the next yard revved up
body young body coffee body coffee
drink that beer while there’s still time
where did it all go thirty years
poof just like that? Hell
I was eighteen and taking a leak
against a tree Summer night my
posse, gang, tribe, whatever
high as kites my girlfriend
too all hot ‘n juicy zipped my
fly turned around and like, ZAP,
here I am irrelevant and old doesn’t
make sense especially since…oh…

doctor, lawyer, accountant, thief
saleman, manager, political chief
this is how we live
I chose to entertain
eye-magnet, ear-drum
– comedy –
center stage
people
versus
clown
c’est moi
come one come all
see my
me
hear my
me
applaud my
me
even if
you don’t recall
my me
or recognize
my name

this darkest dark
alone seek shelter,
need a place to
not expensive we’ll
work something out.

post-verbal-comic-realism
cameras in every room
couldn’t tell actors
from waitresses at
Cafe Inn Sanity

Daddy-0
Sol of our System
light of our being
nominated
for prizes
lost them all

four marriages

ten children

tribal patriarch

you promised

we would be

you promised

we would be

you promised

we would be

your last

won’t help you relax nothing will

in circuitry wireless amazed

together sweet by-and-by don’t want

her creative hole wide as a bear’s cervix

lemme go dear lemme go dear lemme go moon June croon

war lost in the database, bedlam bedlam obfuscation: can’t imagine such
perplex of quarter-million soldiers, vehicles, support personnel to
distant shores, track all units, slim margin error, planes bomb
cities don’t exist, did not exist even before the raids, so
many times recalled mid-mission scream confusion-blood cities mistaken
alive, obliteration neither scheduled nor planned, more paperwork
investigation disarray…

No need to apologize at all. Frankly, the idea of sitting down to read a collection of poems and “alternative” prose pieces sequentially and “straight through,” during a certain, specific time-period belongs to the genius of advertising: i.e. “book reviews.”

“Wanna review ‘Tender Buttons?’ or ‘The Wasteland?’ or ‘Howl?’ You got three days to read it and one day to write up a print-ready/screen-ready ‘review.’ And don’t forget to include some out-quotes and a buncha high-brow stuff about THEME and CONTENT. Oh, and ‘clarity of language,’ and ‘vision,’ are always good for ink-space, write about dem things too. Good luck (thou lowly pissant scribe!)!”

Really. Take your time. I really appreciate your reading it. Along with my sister and X-mother-in-law (she always had a soft spot for me), that’s a readership of three people already. A few good reviews and word-of-mouth (the poor man’s Internet), this book might even break double digits in sales. But I should shut up. Don’t wanna jinx the poor li’l consumer-friendly, recyclable, 90-percent “Organic” processed print-product (may contain additives; processed in an environment of piss, vinegar and outrage, trace-elements of which may appear within )…

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ya,”

ASE

Before reading and writing and thinking became shameful things, especially if funny or subversive or rhythmically inclined, as opposed to (official) narrative-defined, or said stuff nobody wanted the fuck to hear, or wouldn’t tow the line among the Established Professional Avant Garde Guildersburghur committee poets… before my green under the apple bows youth became gangrene, snot green, puke-green, green like ectoplasm, green like halitosis…green as the old fart I’ve become — like, literally, flash-zoom-overnight, man. Like, poof! You know?

Clearly, banking on the melting of the polar ice caps has taken priority over halting or even reversing the catastrophic effects of climate change. The Arctic contains as much as one quarter of the world’s gas and oil reserves, once hidden under huge masses of ice and inaccessible through frozen seas. However, ice is melting faster than predicted, presenting profitable business opportunities which are leading the Arctic countries to lose sight of longer-term climate issues.

I have a friend,  Rand Clifford, a novelist, out near Seattle.  He’s been doing a series of articles for the past year — thoroughly researched; he’s a “classical” sci-fi writer, i.e. gotta be based on scientific fact, not fantasy — on how the methane released by melting ice caps will mean certain, and perhaps near-immediate extinction. 

They’re “getting ready to do battle.”  That is, the corporate interests (I guess the half a dozen conglomerates that own all mainstream-media and all mainstream-everything-else are fighting over resources in the various countries they own) are programming their respective operating systems to produce citizen/consumer/cannon-fodder.

Or, as Lenin (Trotsky? Molotov? I forget) said, “The Capitalists will sell us the guns we’ll shoot them with…”

Or, as X sang in the glorious Punk Year of 1978, “The television rang and it rang off the wall/that was the preacher-man making his call/He said, “Kind friends, this may be the end, this may be your last chance for salvation from sin”/…so he folded his bible and took up a collection…

Jenny "Devil Doll" Gonzalez-Blitz

I guess in Oliver Wilde and Mark Twain’s time (of course today they’d never get published) what  “President” KrapForWits is referring to was called something like “belles-lettres” or some shit like that.  Well, maybe the modifier is a sign that they do possess, if not humor and most other human traits, at least some small sense of mercy.  After all, they could have called them “Daily Poems” or “Hourly Poems,” but settled for “occasional,” probably to prevent those pain-in-the-ass “emotional trauma” and “aggravated assault” law suits…

Anyway, fuck all that.   Petronius was hardly Nero’s favorite (though he had been before he fucked up  by fucking the wrong harem girl or losing his liquor license or whatever the Emperor’s Official Orgy Arranger did to piss Nero off), yet who among his contemporaries, save Juvenal, is worthy of “today’s discriminating reader?”  Well, Tacitus, I guess: the Walter Cronkite of the Roman Empire…

Tomorrow is our turn to throw a public left-hook to the jaw of Big Media. 

By the way: we dumpstered hundreds and hundreds of dollars worth of hummous, dip, pre-cut carrots and celery, 30 boxes of ripe cherries, and a veritable cornucopia of pastries…

Total spent on Seven bottles of Amazing wine (and one champagne): $61.00

Total spent on cheese, crackers, dip INSIDE Trader Joe’s: $21.50

Alaska is disintegrating. The natives’ earnest efforts to make perma-frost
stay stuck, a geological nightmare, did nil to amend their predicament, and
Nanook, nabbed hording snow, received a ticket.

He awoke from a nightmare in which a series of missteps led him to Alaska
where the trees and polar bears are dying and earnest Eskimos, their igloos
soft as sorbet, pray for one-way tickets the-hell-outta the White Man’s
petroleum predicament.

The ticket in his pocket read “First In His Class, Seat A,” but he didn’t
need it after all: his predicament ended when Alaska floated straight to him.
True, it was a nightmare for dedicated sunbathers, but to be earnest,
“life’s a beach (full of Alaska).”

I was thinking earlier of my being a typical American uni-glot being partly the fault of my parents, for believing that crap, hard-coded into the American brain — so I guess they couldn’t help it, about “Education being the province of professional educators,” and anyway they only spoke Spanish.  From my Grand-parents I could have learned Hungarian, German, Yiddish, AND Spanish if they’d only spoke it in front of me.  Just the opposite.  They would slip into any or a combination of all, their own private “Yiddish,” when they wanted to say something that shouldn’t be heard by “der kinder,” or if they were saying something about my parents — who didn’t remember Spanish any more than they remembered any of  the other crap they were supposed to have learned in high school, then college.  

I also could have learned Hebrew, I thought, but they didn’t speak that, unless  it was a Jewish Holiday, because though they were not at all religious — my grandfather ate bacon every morning and ham or other “traif” for lunch — they were brought up in a time when Hebrew was the Sacred Tongue, not to be spoken in any context but a religious one. 

Then I remembered that Yiddish was written in Hebrew letters, which was not forbidden, I don’t think, but which must have made it very difficult for those learning to read Hebrew to understand the newspapers.  Which was probably the point of using letters that don’t actually represent the language that gave birth to them.  Which was a kind of thinking that had to be erased as much as the whole abomination of that bastard of German-Spanish-Polish-Russian-Hebrew and it’s craven ghetto pacifism.  Minimal on the Hebrew since it had been 2000 years since Jews could speak their “true” mother tongue: Aramaic (the Yiddish of it’s day; even Jesus was too Jewish to speak Hebrew in any profane context; hence, Aramaic — which does indeed put into question all that he allegedly said in the New Testament, but that’s a story for another day).

Uh….NOT!  Of course it had to be Hebrew, for a similar combination of reasons and methodologies for it’s own obfuscation:  Israel was not sacred.  The Jewish Socialist state — at the time at least –  could NEVER be sacred, any more than the National Socialist Third Reich could: it would eliminate their legitimacy and lessen their power. 

So Zionism defines Judaism as a race or ethnicity, as did Nazism, which killed as many European Jews, never mind their Yiddishekeite, as its American-made IBM machines and programmed punch-cards could process (or their Ford trucks could carry…).

So…along with the food — which must now be the falafel, swarma, houmus and tabuleh of the people they conquered — the Zionists threw out what it really meant to be “Jewish” in America, or at least New York City…