Pale Blue Auto-Mobile
Saturday, August 01, 2009
Friday, July 31, 2009
An Epic Search (JOB Application 2996)
I first performed on a soapbox
of lit/poetic revolution,
alleged dancing pinhead
on the pins and needles
of our futures,
which...
1956-2006,
Beat by the Beats. Hunters of Thompson guns,
the offing of established literati in the offing,
before the leader looked into the wrong end of the damned thing,
made a mess and missed his second time around
for, like, the second time, like the coming. The second one.
Damn, missed! Almost,
But only for a second,
Like "in command", not nec. "control".
Ultramarines we are we say:
"Second Or Not At All."
(From the Laminate "sic posture republicas". I'll say while
Laughing at the Blueboys, singing "Ankles away," they march their "Ankles away.")
So be it,* and how
diminished our expectations...
2006 - Any present,
Unaware that what was amiss was that there wasn't such a gulf
between Cronkite and Kerouac, (forget Mexico)/(Note Nam) in different mediums/same massages,
when it hurt.
(Masturbating ninjas don't make the 6 o'clock news; maybe, with luck, your 3am hallucination.)
Who's on time, who's on the road, the many roads (punch the road/shoot the clock)
we must all walk down before we...
"the crowded road" (Blueboy ejaculation aside)...
The road full of
frustrated, ripped-off, just plain nonbeliever "enemies who is us"'s saying:
"TV? Oh no, no, no. Not for us. We're a hydrogen jukebox family.
Nonononononononononono..." till fluxed over and out.
And: "We Dance like monkeys
when we want to know/what we want to know/we know what is is, was, and that's the way, really,
You know?
I mean, 'What'?"
And then so much for Famine Values. (TM)
And same too, scrolled and scripted, we are, readers of news, makers of scrolls, travelers, weary no-beliefs, read until we can't.
So cut our news into pieces
We'll digest at some remove,
Subscription canceled due to lack of you,
The last monkey standing,
crouching mystified over your playpal,
Me,
Of course.
Playing dead,
Of course.
Only the surefooted come up here -- a burro delivers my copy machine. I copy dirt, crumble the paper, have rocks. Cheap, and efficient, beautifully pointless. (How do you like my growing wall?)
Now; what else is new my merry men?
*Ask, "So was it?" for the dealbreaker. ¶ 7:28 PM 0 comments
I first performed on a soapbox
of lit/poetic revolution,
alleged dancing pinhead
on the pins and needles
of our futures,
which...
1956-2006,
Beat by the Beats. Hunters of Thompson guns,
the offing of established literati in the offing,
before the leader looked into the wrong end of the damned thing,
made a mess and missed his second time around
for, like, the second time, like the coming. The second one.
Damn, missed! Almost,
But only for a second,
Like "in command", not nec. "control".
Ultramarines we are we say:
"Second Or Not At All."
(From the Laminate "sic posture republicas". I'll say while
Laughing at the Blueboys, singing "Ankles away," they march their "Ankles away.")
So be it,* and how
diminished our expectations...
2006 - Any present,
Unaware that what was amiss was that there wasn't such a gulf
between Cronkite and Kerouac, (forget Mexico)/(Note Nam) in different mediums/same massages,
when it hurt.
(Masturbating ninjas don't make the 6 o'clock news; maybe, with luck, your 3am hallucination.)
Who's on time, who's on the road, the many roads (punch the road/shoot the clock)
we must all walk down before we...
"the crowded road" (Blueboy ejaculation aside)...
The road full of
frustrated, ripped-off, just plain nonbeliever "enemies who is us"'s saying:
"TV? Oh no, no, no. Not for us. We're a hydrogen jukebox family.
Nonononononononononono..." till fluxed over and out.
And: "We Dance like monkeys
when we want to know/what we want to know/we know what is is, was, and that's the way, really,
You know?
I mean, 'What'?"
And then so much for Famine Values. (TM)
And same too, scrolled and scripted, we are, readers of news, makers of scrolls, travelers, weary no-beliefs, read until we can't.
So cut our news into pieces
We'll digest at some remove,
Subscription canceled due to lack of you,
The last monkey standing,
crouching mystified over your playpal,
Me,
Of course.
Playing dead,
Of course.
Only the surefooted come up here -- a burro delivers my copy machine. I copy dirt, crumble the paper, have rocks. Cheap, and efficient, beautifully pointless. (How do you like my growing wall?)
Now; what else is new my merry men?
*Ask, "So was it?" for the dealbreaker. ¶ 7:28 PM 0 comments
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Monday, March 09, 2009
The Old Fight
My boss here in Cape May thinks we Irish are a funny lot, still finding ourselves in a tizzy over things that happened 300 years ago. With all the beauty of the land, him and a big part of the world still believes we’re populated by bomb-mad crazies and that our highest goal is to get on the dole. I tell him, “Is Jersey a state-sized pollution spewing engine inhabited by mostly welfare mothers and factory workers pinning their life’s hopes on winning the state lottery?”
He chooses not to get the point: “Why can’t you people forgive, forget and get on with it? Six years after our civil war – and more blood was spilled there in a few years than has dampened your old sod in a hundred -- we were working side by side again to make things right.”
See, he doesn’t know how deep things go, how our sad history is of a people forever led up to the Golden Cup, only to have it snatched away before our lips can taste the wine of freedom. But still, he puts ideas in my head about our leaders.
Were they the ones who put us on that unending line from the past, that's lead the poorly informed to consider many of us just another terrorist, who’d as soon throw bricks, bottles and, at worst, bombs, as raise a pint to his mate’s health?
This anachronistic religious war is pretty much self contained, but it wears on one. Sure, many of my mates are on the dole. And many’s the time I’ve felt I should fall in line with them. Then again, I look at the new age travelers. That’s the media term for young tinkers, who are pretty much semi-organized homeless people. It’s a right laugh isn’t it? They haven’t found a way out of anything, just into more misery and poverty. No proper homes, excerpt for the lucky few crowded into their little trailers, going here and there with no goal, your da’s life floatin’ away on cheap poteen, your mum doing the unspeakable just to stay alive and feed the babies she shouldn’t be havin’ anyway. A right load of shite.
A lot of us like to escape into America’s old west. Run a John Wayne movie at the local flicker and we’ll be out in droves watchin’ men like him stride and ride across the country like giants; the only borders in the whole fargin’ country an occasional line of barbed wire to keep the soddin’ cows in and the rustlers out. Patrols or guarda, nonexistent. Eat, sleep, fuck where they want; do away with little impediments like indians they swat like flies; takin’ shite from no one.
They got what they wanted without bombing innocent people, didn’t they? But they could have. They were free and could do anything they wanted. Irish school books say that they got freedom from throwin’ some tea into Boston Harbor. I guess our problem is we never really had anything to throw away. But I think that maybe if we had dumped a few of our leaders in the Liffey years ago we’d be better off.
My boss says that if Michael Eisner woulda bought this country, we’d all be happy extras on Main Street Eire, sellin’ little Blarney Stones on chains to the tourists that they'd kiss when the going gets tough, us livin’ in magic castles with leprechauns that are really just my dwarf mates.
Shite, I say, kiss my ass. That's no way to win.
My boss here in Cape May thinks we Irish are a funny lot, still finding ourselves in a tizzy over things that happened 300 years ago. With all the beauty of the land, him and a big part of the world still believes we’re populated by bomb-mad crazies and that our highest goal is to get on the dole. I tell him, “Is Jersey a state-sized pollution spewing engine inhabited by mostly welfare mothers and factory workers pinning their life’s hopes on winning the state lottery?”
He chooses not to get the point: “Why can’t you people forgive, forget and get on with it? Six years after our civil war – and more blood was spilled there in a few years than has dampened your old sod in a hundred -- we were working side by side again to make things right.”
See, he doesn’t know how deep things go, how our sad history is of a people forever led up to the Golden Cup, only to have it snatched away before our lips can taste the wine of freedom. But still, he puts ideas in my head about our leaders.
Were they the ones who put us on that unending line from the past, that's lead the poorly informed to consider many of us just another terrorist, who’d as soon throw bricks, bottles and, at worst, bombs, as raise a pint to his mate’s health?
This anachronistic religious war is pretty much self contained, but it wears on one. Sure, many of my mates are on the dole. And many’s the time I’ve felt I should fall in line with them. Then again, I look at the new age travelers. That’s the media term for young tinkers, who are pretty much semi-organized homeless people. It’s a right laugh isn’t it? They haven’t found a way out of anything, just into more misery and poverty. No proper homes, excerpt for the lucky few crowded into their little trailers, going here and there with no goal, your da’s life floatin’ away on cheap poteen, your mum doing the unspeakable just to stay alive and feed the babies she shouldn’t be havin’ anyway. A right load of shite.
A lot of us like to escape into America’s old west. Run a John Wayne movie at the local flicker and we’ll be out in droves watchin’ men like him stride and ride across the country like giants; the only borders in the whole fargin’ country an occasional line of barbed wire to keep the soddin’ cows in and the rustlers out. Patrols or guarda, nonexistent. Eat, sleep, fuck where they want; do away with little impediments like indians they swat like flies; takin’ shite from no one.
They got what they wanted without bombing innocent people, didn’t they? But they could have. They were free and could do anything they wanted. Irish school books say that they got freedom from throwin’ some tea into Boston Harbor. I guess our problem is we never really had anything to throw away. But I think that maybe if we had dumped a few of our leaders in the Liffey years ago we’d be better off.
My boss says that if Michael Eisner woulda bought this country, we’d all be happy extras on Main Street Eire, sellin’ little Blarney Stones on chains to the tourists that they'd kiss when the going gets tough, us livin’ in magic castles with leprechauns that are really just my dwarf mates.
Shite, I say, kiss my ass. That's no way to win.
Labels: Ireland, Mick, troubles
¶ 11:55 PM 0 comments
Monday, February 23, 2009
The Word Detective Tracks "gig", whirly and otherwise
"The first incarnation of 'gig,' around 1225, was to mean 'a flighty, giddy girl,' although this sense may well have been based on an earlier sense of 'gig' meaning 'something that spins or whirls' (as later found in 'whirligig')." ¶ 12:38 AM 0 comments
"The first incarnation of 'gig,' around 1225, was to mean 'a flighty, giddy girl,' although this sense may well have been based on an earlier sense of 'gig' meaning 'something that spins or whirls' (as later found in 'whirligig')." ¶ 12:38 AM 0 comments
Friday, February 13, 2009
Friday, January 16, 2009
"What I should like to find is a crime, the effects of which would be perpetual, even when I myself do not act, so that there would not be a single moment of my life, even when I were asleep, when I was not the cause of some chaos, a chaos of such proportions that it would provoke a general disturbance so formal that even after my death its effects would still be felt." - "Juliette" -- the Marquis de Sade
¶ 12:02 AM 0 comments
