I am not entranced by this clever art I’ve seen the heads roll in the Age of Reason I’ve watched the bloody scroll of history Unroll While the band played on And ugly men made beautiful noise To introduce the thunder of their guns
There is no greater coward Than the one who slipped by privilege past the front To orchestrate from the sidelines What he could not accomplish himself; Whose skin was too precious to risk And wrapped in the cloak of God ranting sanctimony This shrinking nightshade This empty suit with the pomp of the preening jackal Dines on the awful cries of the dying That he sups like an intoxicating and wondrous wine He feeds on the torment of the injured and estranged Wrapped in the cloak of patriotic hypocrisy
He gestures at the battlefield From which democracy will be ripped stillborn From the blasted body of her dead mother The still greater crime of previous event The falling towers were no accident Nor did some strangers from afar Manufacture this without consent It should to the objective mind Prove self evident
Across the centuries The wind of high blown rhetoric Have driven the millions to an evil death And yet it never seems to dawn How like frightened steers they trample what is before them into the ground And yet it never seems to dawn…
Something there is in the ignorant mind That vibrates to the sympathetic string Of the conscious and applied evil of the Hyena King Something resonates Something capitulates Something rises As something descends
And all that is decent and good All that would bring forth a greater brotherhood Must run to the cover of the invisible wings While a murder of crows blackens the sky And smoking ruins Like new buildings are transformed before your eyes Into a wasteland of fire and death For the profit of the few For the comfort of some The usual business will go on
It seems that this must be Though we have waited with insufficient hope Perhaps we shall see the day That these twisted carrion feeders These iniquitous deceivers The butchers and the reavers And all their demonic crew Shall march into hell fire Into Their native homeland created from their own need And the door will close upon the echo Of all their beautiful words
Chuck you have discarded the used condom, this body that great white hope… this poor drivel of words like an old man too long at the toilet cannot encompass the breadth of that which you did unto death
Chuck, we hardly knew ye.
Up-Chuck Chuck it here boy Keep on Chucking Let’s take a walk through the ground Chuck of the latter days Have a few Chuckles and do a little Chuck and Jive before we get Chucked out
Terrorism and politics were not always happy bed fellows not in the former democracies of the West in any case. But the precedent now set by the president- who has not met a limitation caused by lack of judgment or character that he could not evade, who has not met a bar he could not lower, nor a truth he could not distort, has given you…Chuck; hope of the once free world, champion of chicken pots of multiplying roasters, cross-dresser par excellence of all things
appearing to be other than…
has given you the opportunity to make our world the champion no interest, 3 car monte, one used owner only, deal of a lifetime, no odometer, no problem, drive it away today- answer to the prayers of millions struggling into polyester pant suits and spraying, as if for hornets and locusts to remove the stench of their need and feed from the abandoned house of their being. For all of these who have lost the power of speech themselves, Chuck-
now walking on all fours with the rhinestone broaches and garrish unknown gems bedazzled upon fat sausage fingers, for the non-push-up capable whining children, jiggling like Jello walking to the video-game shop,
inhaling half-gallon Big Gulps…. low tar cigarettes and some kind of soft shit from the pastry shelf.. Chuck…Chuck death has given you opportunity.
for all the drunk daddy’s lusting after/or fondling 13 year old breasts through, “I’m Yo Bitch. I’m Yo Ho” sequined t-shirts cut off above the impaling navel rings… yet further above scant emerging pubic patches already trimmed and buffed… because “you’re not getting any younger”, as the due date approaches…
For every young boy in the brush past the roadside restrooms dreaming about “fuck, I don’t know what.” For the halcyon-eyed housewives and that 10 minute temptation fuck in the afternoon between drinks and missed appointments otherwise engaged… now to spray yet more mists of unearthly hues and sticky stinking excresences of Dow and Dupont unto Monsanto beneath the bridge strained through the Sterno filters of other dreams more
dead, more remote… but really not that far fucking off when you think about it from where we are now.
Chuck…my virtue tis of thee, cheaper than stolen, freer than free. For all the once wretched refuse evolved by faith, effort and determination into a bedrock American Gothic portrait in the brief camera shot of a prime too short; now blown past too fast to recall and once again wretched refuse, now of its own making- retching, stumbling, fumbling at zippers and stays… flesh bulging like Susan Sarandons eyes or that Morty Feldman guy- from the lobster tank…unsure, uncertain slithering.. mandibles waving
if not drunk then certainly insane lurching down enormous aisles of nothing but potato chips, turning into the ‘soft drinks only’ aisle… on into the frozen pre-prepared food section of dinners and deserts- with an ingredient list that might as well be Chinese unless you are Chinese . Onward to the doctor, to the pharmacy, to the Barcalounger, to the grave… oh mighty race of once bright hope and strong facial features… we now bend over for the Huns at the gate… not only without fear but in anticipation Chuck….
for the faux-Blackwater men in Iowa who nightly patrol the perimeters of their split level ranches… for the Mormons and Scientologists, the hippies and the girls on the Internet, Thank you Chuck. Thank you very much.
Thank you for not only the bad things but for the relentless hearing about them the buzz in the atmosphere -radio waves of nonsense like chickens cackling on the astral plane like frogs fucking in jello like shit running uphill in January
downriver the legs of murdered monks sticking out of the flooding river bank to the tune of
♫you can trust your car to the man who wears the star♫
It seems like everything we do is murder Chuck. It seems like second and third hand murder It’s like looking into the toilet bowl between Larry Craig’s legs and Larry King is looking back. Time Warner wants the funeral pictures Peephole magazine wants the autopsy photos
What’s next after fist fucking Chuck?
It seems like everything we do is murder a few times removed
Thank god for all of it How could we ever need redemption so desperately if not for this How would salvation mean anything if not for all of this
There’s your silver lining There’s your light at the end of the tunnel. To find the living light you must imagine your zeal like that of a drowning man seeking oxygen… seeking the surface but actually the depths they say that sort of thing happens but you wouldn’t know about that Chuck
torment is the purification rite that strips away the blinders the ever closing confinement of the energetic lost becomes the magnificent heat of the pressing density of matter against matter forming the diamond that proves no matter how dark and confining it gets it ends in deliverance and perfection and light or something to hold it something to reflect it something for it to pass thru That endless irritation which forms the pearl and you
That is their value What they remind us of the gas that fuels the keep on trucking keep on keeping on. high in the highest Shamballa the most pristine of worlds touches the densest murk and proclaims them one for the one
one for the one
thank you Chuck and may the roses bloom upon your cross.
Greetings to the one that rules the 18 million internal and external universes. Greetings to the one who created everything out of itself Who permeates and rules it and is the consciousness of and In it and who dwells in me
Greetings to the one who is one alone and the many as one Who is the substance of things unseen Who is always more than there is no matter How much there may be The rising sun that never hits the zenith
Greetings to the living light behind all appearances Who composes the appearances and is not what appears Greetings to the qualities and virtues that make up the personality of The ineffable in the cloud of unknowing that shrouds the blinding world and Humbles everything before it and which Dwells in me.
Greetings to the unassailable unmoving center From which spirals the galaxies and worlds Like the spiral of a closed fist Of perfect concentration That holds it all in place that Moves it all that forms and un-forms and does not Begin or end and which dwells in me.
Greetings to that which endures and prevails And is the life in everything That meets and greets itself knowing and unknowing That scatters itself into uncountable pieces and Gathers them altogether again and That dwells in me
Greetings to the dynamic animating principle. Greetings to the one that does not know time nor size but Does know sequence and form
Greetings to the one whose idea is complete in the genesis and Is the intelligence behind evolution and design and not the result of them. Greetings to what cannot be known but whose presence can be practiced And enjoyed and who dwells in me.
Greetings in the before and after that both spill into the endless now Greetings to the one who commands the superiors and inferiors Whose every effort serves the entire Who is the one who waits before In the midst and at the end of every thought, word and deed
Greetings to the mind inside the mind of every architect in every dream Who waits and watches forever and who Abides in me.
Greetings from within the sleep that struggles for awakening That cries out for union with the beloved That cries in this moment for awakening to the one Who dwells in me.
Greetings many greetings and much gratitude Greetings and greetings and much gratitude