Dog Poet Transmitting.......
'May your noses always be cold and wet'.
Well... I must say that I am torn between extremes on the approach of Sweet Irene. I don’t wish disaster on anyone but then again, where does one stand on matters concerning those who do wish, support and provide no opposition to calculated disasters visited on others, far off in the plundered regions of corporate holocaust? Each and every day, millions of Americans, Canadians, Brits, Australians and the like, living in the occupied lands of The Crown Colonies, turn their heads away, or stoke the dark chemical fires of naked greed, or turn their baboon red ass of pornographic need into support of the torture, dismemberment and murder of those in their way, no matter how many thousands of miles out of their way they may be. So if Irene comes up on America like a scorned Columbian wife and rips that brittle stone phallus to the ground, I’m going to stand up and applaud her demonstration of the impotent bankrupt symbols of a land that doesn’t exist.
How honest should I be? Part of me wants to see a wall of charging water slam into Wall Street and wash the fountain pen killers out of their pricey suites, so that they can be barbecued by the homeless on refrigerator grills, somewhere in the labyrinth of the subway tunnels, where they’ve been forced to live out of the sight of those still in a position to continue on as serfs and servants to the predators in their midst. I’m probably fooling myself about that because the storm surge will wash those tunnels clean and all that will be left are legions of rats bobbing on the insecure islands of bloated bodies, like polar bears on melting ice floes; should such a condition actually exist, outside of the government’s special effects lab over at The Global Warming film studios.
This is what I don’t get. Back in the Vietnam era there was such a public uproar over the illegality of one more imperialistic kill frenzy that they stopped the war. Now conditions are many, many times worse and you have the internet. The wars are multiple. The domestic conditions are a horror story. The economy is a yo yo performance by a blind man with advanced Parkinson’s disease and everything belongs to the people with the phone number of the Ringwraith, Homeland Security goons. Here’s just one of the mysterious mindfucks taking place across the length of the land of the free. There are many, many stories like this and they all involve low level functionaries, acting on the orders of someone unnamed but probably the same people producing the wars; poverty, famine and disease, as well as the reality TV shows.
Across the land you may see a few thousand outraged citizens, reacting to the extreme pressure of armed, uniformed thugs, who often look like what they resemble except they’re still standing on two feet, unfortunately. Meanwhile, tens of millions bend over and wait, or press forward in a frenzy to emulate those who are dressing them up in bondage gear for the big sleepover in the Pulp Fiction pawn shop. If the people don’t rise up then the people will go down with the rest of it and they deserve no less.
Lady Nature is not impressed with Bennie the Boy Lover’s speaking engagements. She blew his hat off his head and then sent wind; rain, thunder and lightning as a ‘get the fuck off the stage’ request. Then she rattled the eastern seaboard, cracking the pyramid top of the monument, knocked the spires off of one of the cathedrals of the rich and shook the ground all the way up. Now she’s coming in a reverse cowgirl to ride the coast hard and put it away wet. How’s that for turnaround? How’s that for ‘bend over and wait’? You don’t want to do anything about the vile shit your government is up to? Well there’s another government with boots on the ground that’s had enough of your indifference and face stuffing, horizontal expansion complacency. If there’s ever been a time for fire and floods, this is it.
Like I said, I don’t wish disaster on anyone but what do you do about people who wish disaster on themselves, no matter how long overdue it may be? Part of me is saying, “Hold off Vis, let it happen and then turn on the compassion machine”. Part of me is saying, “Kick the living shit out of them”. Anyone objecting to that is a feckless, sexless automaton who’s long on advice from a distance and short on action from any perspective.
Of course, all the people this applies to aren’t reading this; they’re getting the Fox News enemas on schedule though, they like the cool refreshment of it; the tickling excitement of the entry that speaks of bigger things to come. Yes, a vast army of Mr. and Mrs. Potato heads are marching to the potato chip factory, cause someone offered them two bags of chips for the price of one. This is why there’s no action or applied inaction like there ought to be which, simply comes down to stepping away from the machine on every level and watching it slow down and stop. Why exercise your power though when the real thrill is having the power exercised on you and... there’s always the possibility you’ll miss your dead animal lunch and I know you want flies with that. You’re going to get flies.
You never said anything when they got rid of posse comitatus and all the other protections. You never questioned the absurdity of three skyscrapers falling at the speed of free fall into their own footprints, as the real terrorists concocted their Al Qaeda boogeyman so that they could build up a national army of faceless contractors for the purpose of what? Was the purpose to protect you from a non existent Al Qaeda? No, the purpose was to protect them from you, while they took everything you had and then either killed you or something worse. The irony of it, the real joke on both of you is that you had no plans to object anyway. They could have saved themselves a lot of your money but they actually thought you had more sand than that.
Now that Lady Nature has her powers back, which I happen to know for a fact, there’s going to be all kinds of ground waking adventures from someone who does give a shit. It can’t be said that you don’t deserve what’s coming for you but, maybe you’re bending over and waiting for that too. When the instructions come for you to pack up your shit and move to the FEMA camps, for your own protection, you’ll be waiting in line ahead of time, like the sunstroke victims of Bennie the Boy Lover.
I’m past wondering if it’s something in the water; frequencies in the air, television, genetics, I don’t know. Some of us are made differently. I’ve got no problem seeing what’s afoot and has been. That goes for the main body of readers here too. What is it? I don’t have a clue.
So “c’mon Irene” wash the country clean.
I’ll admit that I’m concerned she might lose some force when she hits land (this closed with, "now back to reality" spoken at the end by a long time press thug). All I can hope for is that she hits category 4 or 5 before that happens. If the hand of the cosmos is guiding this; it guides everything so what am I thinking? Since the cosmos is guiding this, can you go for maximum damage? Call it a long overdue wakeup call. Turn New York City into a waterpark. They’ll be charging admission to the rides within a day and they will have those rides too. Mostly, I guess I am asking that you hit the money machine. I’m asking that you get surgical and play ‘wack a weasel’. I want them so obsessed with the fluctuations of the market that they can’t leave their desks no matter what they see from the window.
It could be just a big bust and it might not work even if it is not, because their perception of everything will be contained in the enema bag feeding that follows the event. They’ll go back to yelling at each other and following orders, no matter what those orders are. They’ll defend their oppressors and strive among themselves to be filmed committing charitable acts, or sending money they don’t have to people like this, I know they left a lot of names off the list.
When stupid can be reached by no normal means, then stupid must be informed in any way that becomes necessary. There may be no cure for stupid. It might be one of those closed systems where only stupid gets in and only stupid gets out.
I’ll just sit here in my schizophrenic tug of war about the right position to hold and maybe speculate on the possibility that a true aftershock might come around right in the peak of the hurricane.
'Rocket Ship' is track no. 7 of 10 on Visible's 2006 album 'Songwriter'
Lyrics (pops up)