Sunday, October 31, 2010

I Am A Chinese Sex Slave Spammer

It all started with a prank at my so-called "regular" job which I hated, a job which I affectionately referred to simply as "hell". When I'm there I wish to share the hell so I called this 1-800 number I came across where they will call the person of your choosing pretending to be anyone you want and harass that person. So I did that with Rhianna, my co-worker.

Rhianna likes her job and it's a good fit for her and she's married with three kids and is a very even-keeled sort of person. That's all great and everything except when I see an even-keeled person like that I’ve just got to rock that boat. I found out before I can fool her as I once doctored an email typing in crap as if another co-worker had replied to me, then I forwarded that on to her. She says, "Oh, I didn't know Fred wanted to do that chore." Neither does Fred, laughed evil me.

So I made this harmless prank phone call to see if I could get her goat only it backfired on me and my secret life. In my secret life there's this fancy cool strip of restaurant houses down by the beach where all the cool and/or moneyed people like to frequent. It's there I like to run around naked and flash my dick at hot women. It's my only outlet you see. But Rhianna was really smart once she found out I pranked her again and backtraced the call. Damned if all things it hadn't come from one of those restaurant houses!

So sure enough as I'm pulling my shenanigans again, a black and white cop car shows up to investigate Rhianna's complaint. Of course, I don't know this, I think they're there for me because someone spotted me. I'm trapped, cut off from my car and seriously panicked. I have to hop over a couple of fences - I can't tell if the cop is chasing me or not - but in the end I'm stuck outside au natural.

While hiding I find out the truth. A huge Chinese slave operation is going on and the businesses will whore themselves out for anyone or anything as long as it makes them a buck. It's called the "Blonde Connection" because they make all the slaves' hair blonde. So that was the reason all these places were so popular and profitable behind their swank and groovy facade. I thought it was just because everyone was so cool who ran them and their customers were likewise.

For once, the cops did their homework and discovered the operation and early one morning there was a HUGE round up and search of all the places and they took out all the blonde slave kids and arrested the bosses. The cops surprised them by closing in dressed as regular people and I remember that one really tan cop in a bikini was just dynamite. In fact, one Chinese organization soldier smarted off to her on how hot she was and the next thing I know the cops are all fully clothed as everyone is deported and shut down.

The usual suspects

Since I was stuck naked for so long I lost my regular job hell and as another Chinese Restaurant house opened up and started to thrive again I was forced to go there for labor. Again, all the ritzy, flashy people were showing up and all I had was old newspapers to cover me. I waited for an isolated moment to confront the hostess and ask to work there. She may have been a slave but you still had to be edgy and lively to front the place so I feared facing her and what she'd think of my newspaper clothing chic.

She was very doubtful of me but I was insistent knowing that because I was willing to whore myself out the Chinese overloads would find a place for me. Finally she lets me in the back to a waiting area to be processed. My sister has fouled up her life too and she's joined me in the pursuit of pressed whoredom. After a few long, anxious moments we are accepted and led down a dark hallway to an elevator and told to go to the fourth floor. Like a Dr. Who Tardis, the place only got bigger the further you went inside it.

A resentful Chinese guy gets on the elevator with us. It's obvious he belongs to the place and knows the layout but I keep wondering if he's resentful of my American sister and me or if he's just resentful in general. I was keenly aware of the vulnerability of my ignorance of the Chinese operation and knew he could trip us up if chose to so I was painstakingly monitoring his every action without trying to give away I didn’t trust him one whit in this sordid house I was to call "home."

Sure enough, I see him jacking with the elevator controls but I thought I saw how to undo what he did as he got off. But dammit if he wasn't trickier than I thought and my sister and I ended up on the seventh floor, not the fourth. Instantly I saw what a grave mistake that was as it was very plush and residential with these long carpeted hallways and mammoth room of luxury to the left where I assumed the owners lived. I had no doubt this was an area I should not tread without permission and I got so rattled I dropped the carafe of wine I was carrying, leaving an ugly spot on the expensive carpet. Shit!

I start running down the hallway only a Chinese girl - one of the owner's daughters I presumed - called me back. She was pissed but firm and told me to clean up the mess and report to work downstairs where I belonged. She did not fire me on the spot as I expected and maybe she knew that as a newbie someone probably played a prank on me to have me wandering the forbidden seventh floor. I took solace in this glimmer of intelligence but wondered if I'd ever come across anyone else like her where I was headed.

My sister went off to the whoring area because she was good at that from her previous job in real estate fucking. I however can't do sex for money even if I choose such a path. I can neither patronize a prostitute nor be one, it holds no allure for me. So I was forced into menial labor jobs and I had to hang out with a bunch of toothless people who remain in a perpetual state of filth and despair. I didn't want to seem like a snob but I am one and I need a better class of people to hang out with. But such was not my circumstance - nor was any change on the horizon to my black, windowless world.

A taste of life came my way in the basement one day where I found the manufacture of Japanese artifacts including samurai swords (though I couldn't tell the quality, which was important to me). The slave girls were very friendly to me there and like, "Oh you like Japanese stuff?" and I was like, "Yes, yes!" and they let me look around and it was wonderful even though it was just a flavor of life if not an actual feeding.

While down there I came across Successful Radio Guy who'd always been a jack of all trades and currently had a call-in show about cars, which made me very jealous of his life. As we walked along I told him how much I admired his work and then I found out this large banner hanging on the wall was one painted by him. It was a lovely Japanese scene and I envied his many talents and I was like, "Damn, I didn't know you could do that!"

Then I remembered that, oh yeah, back in the day he used to take requests for making banners only it got so popular he had to publicly quit. But he was still making them on the side apparently and he told me of his wonderful life in the outside world where his talents afforded him such a lovely ride. Not that I want to be a commercial painter but I truly envied him because I saw he was a much more developed person than I am and that's what facilitated a pathway for his talents to shine.

I also spied something else going on there at the end of the day. Some of the rich couples bonded with the small Chinese boys who served their meals and devised a way to steal them away from their lives of slavery. The boys were forced to be anonymous, wearing paper bags over their heads but the Chinese masters had outsmarted themselves this time. A couple would call in one boy, act like he never came, then request the boy they wanted to escape with. They'd return the first boy as if he were the second who they then took away to a new life free of this dark house of oppression.

"That's a way out," I surmised. "Making a human connection." But I am an unfriendly and cowering sort which is why I was running around naked in the first place. Human connection, me? But that's when I came across Open Salon when I was moved to the industrial spam section. There I could meet a better class of people (for the most part) than the Dirty Toothless Ones who surround me on a day-to-day basis. No way could I let anyone know my true circumstance so I picked a nomenclature of NormalPerson to fool everyone.

It worked great and I fooled some people into thinking I was a normal person in reality as I sat nude and twisted in my dark room lit only by the light of a monitor. It was tough reading about the Lives Of Others and finally had to pass on those posts as I continued to write in my off hours of a life imagined which everyone thought was real - and of my true life which everyone thought I was making up. The guilt, of course, caught up with me and the stealing of friendships is not a sustainable path. So I have resigned myself to a life of manufacturing spam and ill will, my blog drifting through cyberspace unknown and misunderstood and I myself praying for an early grave.


Thursday, October 28, 2010

Supermom Loses Her Cape

"Whatever you do, don't expect your son to entertain you. That's not his job. You are a person of high passion, dear Julia, thusly you invoke high passion in others. If your son believes he needs to entertain you he will most certainly die trying to do so."
- the mystic prophet of the Celts

The words branded her the moment she heard them, cursing the prophet as the flames of truth singed her soul. And yet, like Moses standing before the Burning Bush, she cowered before the flames in tears, realizing for the first time the life's love she'd rejected. The precious idol of her self-image had toppled and she thanked God no one was in the room to see it. But that did not stop her from feeling as if the whole of the universe knew.

But she never consulted the prophet again, lest he further wound her chances at successful motherhood - to her the most precious of all gifts. Never had it crossed her mind not to have children. She came from a strong family tradition and because she benefited from that she also felt the obligation to continue it, a heritage of love and support. Julia couldn't wait for her chance and God help any force of the universe that stood between her and her children!

Only, it turned out not to be so simple. Damn the prophet! He knew of her Missing Piece, he'd read her soul and seen all. Oh what had possessed her to go to him? She wanted to go back to her time of blissful ignorance, of never doubting herself. She'd been so sure when entering his tent! I am Mother, hear me roar! But the Lioness walks in solitary silence now.

Though unconfessed, she was secretly grateful for the prophet's words, pulling a hidden thorn from her side. Julia knew if she had children without solving the riddle of the Missing Piece of her life her children would pay. The prophet had made it all real and alive - undeniable. So real, in fact, she even failed to rejoice in the news she'd have a son. Would she in the end let down the generations who both preceded her and to follow? With great gifts comes great responsibility.

Despite the hidden thorn, previously she knew the sleep of anticipation - but those days were gone. Now her nights were filled wrestling with blind doubt. "This is too hard! You ask too much!" Her sweat soaked sheets despaired of her being made pariah in her family, The Woman Who Drove Her Son To Death. And her demon had a name: boredom. It's driving lash drove her mercilessly in her prison, precious drops of entertainment like rain in the desert. She must have it!

Like an addict's needle was her family's wealth, stringing her out in its service, keeping the Missing Piece forever out of reach. Julia told no one of the prophet's words and like all secrets it came to consume her life in search for confession. She found her confessor in a traveling circus clown. He fed her laughs as a grateful servant, melting her resistance in helpless desire. She consummated the deal with this blowing leaf never to be seen again, safe from her family's eyes.

But the plan had been for a man of the community, a rock of good faith, to be the foundation of her family.

With the unfaceable shame of reckless impregnation, Julia fled to the poor quarters of a port town on the coast of England. She gave birth to a son, John. Unable to cope, she reached out to her sister Mimi, the only possible member of her family who might understand. Together they cared for him, nursing him along, but all the while Julia drowned in the responsibility. More than anything she feared passing the misery of her life onto her son.

When the boy was five he had to make a decision. Julia and Mimi stood side by side and the boy was asked to choose with whom he wanted to live. He picked his aunt Mimi. Julia gave up contact with her son, setting him free. Better to lose his love than drive him to death. As for life, she was just in it for the laughs and good times now, an unwilling, defeated entertainment whore.

It was doing what she wanted that scared her the most. Despite being made outcast in her family, she still clung to their obligations in a guilty sense of duty. Never did she give herself permission to pursue herself and at last find the Missing Piece. No, she of the one night infamy with a traveling clown ("Of all people to sire your child, Julia!") duly punished herself in moral self-denial - and it ate her alive. Life was reduced to the endless pursuit of stolen smiles.

John was fifteen when he discovered the woman around the bend with her wicked sense of humor. He spied her talking to a neighbor woman and right in the middle of the conversation she casually rubbed her eye - right through her glasses! She wore the frames without lenses just to sneak the joke in whenever she got the chance. John was instantly in love with her. Got to love a free spirit such as she, for no one was freer than Johnny boy!

John only did what he wanted (to the great consternation of his aunt Mimi). He left the dying for others to do. Life was magical and ancient and he put all his trust in it. His teachers, his screaming aunt, even the parents of his friends chastised him to bend to the world, to be "practical". But he fiercely clung to his dreams of life, picking up where his mother had left off. Julia hadn't realized it, but in her weakness she'd been made strong and the lineage she passed to her son more beautiful than the stars.

It was to John's amazement when told it was his mother who was the fearless jokester, living around the corner all these years. They became famous friends, she feeding his free spirit, encouraging him to find his Missing Piece. She may have been broken and weak but in her John found a safe haven. Above all, she understood. Her being made pariah from the family unshackled her: find what life has to give. Happiness of the heart is not a sin!

Julia sang to John's unborn songs. Rock and roll fitted him and while his aunt famously scolded, "A guitar's alright, John, but you'll never earn a living by it," Julia shared in John's dreams knowing she had no right to judge having never found her own. That was the only wall between them. Julia saw the light in her son's eyes, but she never "got" his music, unable to travel that far down the road of life. But finding a "mate" in his mum further cemented this wonderful, mystical feeling he was on the right path. He would take her to the stars she never reached.

That is until an off duty cop came careening around the corner one night, running her over and killing her. But though they knew each other only a short time in earthly moments, they loved a lifetime and now sing together in the heavens.


Half of what I say is meaningless
But I say it just to reach you

Calls me
So I sing a song of love

Seashell eyes
Windy smile
Calls me
So I sing a song of love

Her hair of floating sky is shimmering
In the sun

Morning moon
Touch me
So I sing a song of love

When I cannot sing my heart
I can only speak my mind

Sleeping sand
Silent cloud
Touch me
So I sing a song of love

Calls me
So I sing a song of love
For Julia

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Women Woes Of White Wine Willie

My tears are like the quiet drift
Of petals from some magic rose;
And all my grief flows from the rift
Of unremembered skies and snows.

I was sitting on a park bench
on the edge of humanity
on a weak day after noon
I saw no friends about me
The strange, warm autumnal sun and its muted light
made me reflect time and space misspent
I watched mothers with their strollers
lovers with their stroking
and others with their roaming
between the soft shadows
and I wondered:
"I have no life, no hope, no dreams
no family, no friends, no fucking
I know why I want to die
but why do they choose death?"


Waves of pain wash over me, swimming as an outcast from the ark of Noah as the heavy waters rise. My radar shuts down in moments like these and I had no fucking desire to talk as Willie plops down beside me in his usual unflappable way. My glassy eyes slowly turn to see the brown-papered bottle in his hand. I lash out.

"You weak bitch!"

"One tries!" he grinned, taking a gulp.

"The minute you get a little change in your pocket you run right out and get your 'medication'. It's fucking ridiculous!"

"Doctor's orders!" He takes another unrepentant swig.

"You're just a helpless bitch!" Last thing I wanted to see was another trapped, hapless human like me. Goddam him!

"You know, Harry, for guys alone like us, dying sorta makes sense, don't it?"

He knew I knew what he meant. For some "alone" means not being with someone, for wretches like us it means you can't be with someone. Willie was right. May as well die. At least he snapped me out of my reverie - which was a good thing?

So he goes on to tell me one of his usual female adventures - or attempted adventures more like it. He really came across a live one this time.

Motherfucking-asshole-son-of-bitch-FUCKER! Get outta my face!

"That's what she says to me and I tell her all I said was hello."

Motherfucking-asshole-son-of-bitch-FUCKER! You don't fool me! You just want someone you can just shit on and leave!

"So I asks her if it OK I say goodbye even."


"OK, I get it I say, but she then gets mad I cut her off."

You interruptin' me, you sexist pig? Hey, aren't there any real men around here? Who's going to be my guilty hero and beat this creep up?

"I'm looking around and shit if there ain't a bunch of angry looking dudes headed my way."

"I know what I would have done."

"Way ahead of you. I open up my hand and bitch slap the holy hell out of her!"

Oh, aren't you the nicest man! You have the strongest hands! Please shit on me in the worst way possible!

"Then she follow me around like a cat I just fed. Was 45 minutes before I could ditch her."

I'm shaking my head with a crooked smile from the corner of my mouth. "Willie, you ever think of hanging around a better class of woman?"

"Sure I do. All the time. Those women want nothing to do with me!"

"What about that Anna chick? She had an elegance about her."

Willie stared into his bottle absorbing the blow I had inadvertently delivered. Mentally I watched him crawl inside, trying to make himself safe from the pain. His eyes looked up ahead at nothing. "Didn't work out."

This was one of those times where silence offers the best consolation and we sat sharing the park bench in wounded woe: he thinking of Anna and me my reverie. I wondered if we looked as normal to the rest of the park goers as they seemed to me. Did we look like two friends enjoying the day in coordinated company as opposed to the two lost souls of happenstance we were? A dead leaf drifted down to our feet as if in answer.

"I can't figure it, Harry. I see these great women and I think: She's too good for me. I see these other women and I think I'm too good for them. I'm trapped in limbo land, unable to make a case for myself. I don't want the woman who says she's willing to be with White Wine Willie." Willie took an extra long dose from the bottle.

The answer was obvious. "Isn't there anyone who'd be happy with just plain o' Willie?" No note of condescension was in my voice. Willie bucked up, staring me in the eye, feeling his fiber.

"Anyone happy with just plain ol' Harry?" he offered.


We looked away to avoid black abyss
each alone with his miseries
as the shadows edged forward

I think, that if I touched the earth,
It would crumble;
It is so sad and beautiful,
So tremulously like a dream.
- Dylan Thomas


Monday, October 25, 2010


The pounding on the front door thundered louder, hungry for an answer.

"You freak! Go away, loser! Get off my goddam back!" No change in the rapid fire beating. "Stop it! You have no right! Leave me alone! Leave me be, you monster!"

Finally, the monster stopped - and my heart started. I drew the blinds and covered the openings into my house, sealing out the Beast completely. That was a close one! But the Beast has found me once more. I am not safe.

I have never seen the Beast, but I know it comes to kill, its urgent knock a sure sign of the apocalypse of my wicked, wicked ways. If you were to ask me how to be safe I have no answer. Feeling safe is all I can ask for. So I flipped on the TV to the Religious War Money News Network and they told me all about the Beast:

"The Beast is coming to kill us all! It cannot be bargained with, it cannot be reasoned with, and it absolutely will not stop EVER until you are dead!"

I knew it! And it's officially on the news - it must be true! I'm not sticking my ass out the damn door! But...I am pretty miserable stuck inside here all the time. Mr. Boner keeps asking to go outside and it can't be reasoned with either. We're killing people all over the world but nobody knows the exact one who is the Beast. I can't wait until he's dead so I can be free!

Your rent is overdue! sayeth the Beast

Forever trapped, I lay in the dark on my bed, open-mouthed and empty, dreaming of a life for me, to never be. Who am I? The man on the bed or the man in my head? Neither one seems true...

The phone it her? I hurriedly stumble off the bed, smacking my knee on the chest as I round the corner. "Hello?" Yes, it's her! Telephone Survey Lady. I'm all smiles as I answer.

"Hey!!! How are you?...That was really funny last time!...I know, I know. You can never leave your job or I'll die!..." We talk and laugh about news of the day, tentatively exploring one another in ways mere eyes never can. She never speaks it - she being the essence of class - but she risks trouble on her job calling me over and over like this.

Both the good and bad news is she brings out the best in me. "Oh, haha, I know! People who never leave their houses are such losers! They have no faith in life! What idiots!" Yes, I mock those just like me. I speak of my dream life as if it's real life, stealing her friendship over the line. So while talking to her is heaven, deceiving her is hell. What to do?

Somehow I have to go out and get a life before she finds out what a freaky fraud I am. Jesus, the pressure! I remain helpless in my fear of the Beast, doubtlessly hiding in the bushes to slowly devour me in perpetual agony. Who can risk such a thing? She does. She made the break into the daylight.

Nothing makes me feel good anymore...what use is all the money in the world if I can't leave my night I make prank phone calls telling people they are worthless and the Beast loves only me...those who've faced the Beast just laugh and hang up...but most get angry and it is they with whom I spend my time wallowing in the gutter...after I hang up I wonder what Telephone Survey Lady would say if she'd heard hearts twists in ever-tightening torment like a wet rag wrung dry...

"Telephone surveys are dumb!...Who does telephone surveys? Not anyone cool!...Know what I really think of a telephone surveyor? I think-" the line goes dead, she never calling me again. I tell myself I did her a favor, so why is it I'm dying? If she'd found out my address I was dead meat anyway. I deserve to die in the dark. What am I to her but a voice on the phone anyway, right?

And yet...

Crawling under a blanket, peaceful sleep is lost from me forever. Words slip from my mouth, I reach out to grab them but they slip through my fingers. What if I can never grab them for the paper again? It just keeps getting worse and worse; the justice of God. The Grim Reaper sharpens his scythe in snarky anticipation, sweat drips in puddled despair. I know what's meant for the likes of me. And then, as if in answer, the front door shudders anew from the furious fist.

OK, OK. I give up. Better to die than listen to one more cursed minute of that goddam pounding!

Eyes lowered in drowsy doom, I open the door to face the Beast's wrath. My jaw drops in surprise. "You're no beast! You're really - "

And then I was hushed to silence.


Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Lives Like Autumn Leaves

"Debbie come home."

A longing phrase whispered in the night, summing up a life dead-ended. Walking through the cots in a night shelter gives one the sense of God, hearing the bared prayers and soft supplications locked tight during the staged day. That was Fred's whisper I heard and whoever Debbie was he certainly has no home to offer her. She could reside two blocks away and the gap between them would still be as the stars.

Doris is a rather large black woman who spends a great deal of her time just sitting on the sidewalk a few dozen yards from the shelter. She's very approachable without an ounce of bitterness in her. In the real world she's a superstar. I measure myself against her when tempted to drink from the cup of self-pity. Even in my private moments I fear what she'd say, knowing her true light is out there.

A Baptist preacher from one of our sponsoring churches was making the rounds of the "streeters" who feel more comfortable outside than in (like me). I know I'm not supposed to speak ill of the churches who sometimes are the only ones who acknowledge we exist, but sometimes I feel we are nothing more than a check box to them to be marked off as a good deed done. I'm not a cow to be processed despite the slaughterhouse world I live in.

So this preacher goes up to Doris smiling and she responds in kind just like she does for anyone who approaches her. He starts in on some lecture of the Word or whatnot, I couldn't really hear his words but you could tell from the body language and tone he was meaning to impart wisdom - even if he wasn't. What I did hear was Doris' classic reply: "But Father, if God love me any more I'm just gonna die!"

Whitfield - only name I heard associated with him - was an actor of the finest kind. Acting is done to one degree to another here by lots of folks but I truly appreciate the ones who take it to a whole other level. Whitfield's got a story to tear your heart out, a pure victim of circumstance. He dressed the part with his suburban white clothes laced with a middle class background of one who'd done everything right but it still wasn't enough. Damn this world of ours!

But it was sheer fabrication. Whitty was an observer and seeing the tale to sell he molded in his mind the life story most suitable. Not often you get a master weaver of storytelling but they do come through on a regular basis, driven by the pathology of their situation. I doubt even a real actor could pull off the con these guys do but then actors don't have the same life and death motivation.

These guys are hell to spot. When first hearing their story your mind says, "My God! My God! Don't let that be true! Don't let that be the true face of our society!" But if you keep your mind open and remove all prejudice - a tricky thing to do to remove the advocacy - one can hear the false note that inevitably pops up: a fact too well emphasized or a point made out of concert, "Why did he say that??" Once the spell is broken you get to the heart of the matter even if you know your storyteller will never come clean, the truth too shattering, living a lie to get by.

Gerald the Russian Jew, now there was a breath of fresh air! Man, if only I could can what he's got. Gotta love a guy who yells at a WWII movie on TV: "You never in war! You just acting!" We're all looking at each other like, "Who is this guy?" He too was a con man but not like Whitfield who created a story as a buffer from reality. Gerald loved to weave fact and fiction together to the point you had no way of telling what was real or what was not. I suspect this was his way telling the world he too could not tell what was real and what was not.

He'd make these wild bullshit statements like, "In St. Petersburg all the kids learn Klingon so parents not understand what they say." Who the hell knows if it's true but it's a damn great story! But deep down I really do want to know it if is true, the crazy mind fucker. But it was watching him interact with Maria that was truly delicious. Maria, the Grande Dame as we mockingly called her, was of the ilk who preferred makeup over food. She maintained the pretense of her previous life at all costs - often to the disgust of the rest of us just scraping by.

Gerald was drawn into her like a helpless magnet. But he was a rolling stone and she an impenetrable rock, doom rising on the horizon. It did make for one of the oddest exchanges in a place of odd exchanges. Even if repressed, it was clear to anyone watching the exploding chemistry between the two, then Gerald pops out: "Maria? Your name's Maria? My dick is named Maria!" The room just erupted in laughter and shocked smiles. Steam belched out of Maria's burning red ears and Gerald surprisingly seemed taken aback by our reaction. But like I said, he was truly a breath of fresh air.

Afterwards I felt I had to say something to him about his words - even though a little voice told me not to. Like most Jews, Gerald was an old soul and had traveled paths most never knew. But I know a few paths of my own so I told him he wasn't really impressing Maria with talk like that.

"Who want impress?" His hawkish nose showed me its disdain. "I put her off good!"

He stood there ramrod straight waiting for me to catch on, the wheels in my mind spinning furiously but I was too flustered to make the connection. Then he turns on me, flushing my face and waving me off with, "Tout comprendre c'est tout pardonner." Gerald had stung me well. I hate it when I try to pigeonhole people and I end up with egg all over my face. Keep.Mind.Open. Gerald the rolling stone moved on, painfully aware he had no life to offer Maria even though he wished it in his soul. So truth became opposite and he'd brushed her away.

Many are the lives I see here, detached like autumn leaves separated from the Tree of Life. Their lives turning hopelessly brown without the nourishment they need, leaving them to dry up and blow away and rarely do we see the final resting place.


Ten thousand years ago we sang this tune with the angels

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

New Poll: 3% Of Americans Have A Brain!

I know, I know - seemed sorta high to me too. But Jesus called us sheep for a reason: the inability to go beyond one dimensional thinking. When asked what the most pressing problem we have today in America, 3% wild-eyed, out-of-touch-with-reality radicals said the war in Afghanistan. And who knows, those were probably Fox News Junkies in permanent fear mode, all terrorism/all the time.

So how does one control a sheep? (nevermind there's no actual benefit to it). Simple, one cracks the foundation to his home. He can't see that crack (without investigating) but he can see the resulting cracks it creates in the walls. But every time the sheep patches his wall you just shift his foundation in another direction, new cracks form and so on and so on. You'll be giggling your ass off as the wife yells at her husband for doing a lousy job of fixing things while he lambastes the government for not providing better plaster. People is funny!

At first, you're sorta scared, asking yourself: "Won't they catch on? Won't they kill me when they find out?" But they never do! And you get bolder and bolder in shifting the foundation until you jettison all regard for reality. You knock on the sheep's front door telling him you've come to care of "Those darn, crappy walls!" Husband and wife sheep gratefully acknowledge your "helping" as you take a fire ax and chop the crap out of the house. Then you wipe your hands in alleged accomplishment declaring, "That will keep you safe! Mission accomplished!" The sheep give a standing ovation.

Three percent. Is it really that high?

Not surprisingly, Americans claim jobs and the economy as the number one priority. But somehow there's a disconnect between our massive war budget and our lack of money and rising deficits. But even if we could afford this war it's still the one driving factor of our current self-destruction: lack of concern for human life. The same madness that feeds our greed cracks the foundation of our present and future. We must first remove the fog from our eyes if we are to see our way out of this mess or we are condemned to continue making one blind tragic decision after another.

Obama has been the perfect front man for the war:

When an ABC News/Washington Post poll released in early September directly asked how important a number of issues would be in deciding how to vote for Congress in November, the economy, health care and the budget deficit were all rated as very important or the single most important issue more often than the war was. In contrast, in the period leading up to the 2006 midterm elections, the war in Iraq and concerns about terrorism trumped all other issues in Times/CBS News national polls. Amid broad dissatisfaction with the war in Iraq that year, American voters ushered in a new Democratic majority in Congress.

It's obvious when an anti-Christ is waging a war as to the evil of it, but Obama has soothed the left into submission, putting them to sleep with poppy fields of a never-to-be promised peace ("I want to get out but just can't!") and praising the illusion we are killing the bad guys. We are the bad guys over there. His siren song of pretty predator drones and reluctant collateral damage leaves only the "unreasonable" as protesters. Well, you're goddam right I'm unreasonable when it come to senseless mass murder!

A faceless thing, an evil thing.

Lack of focus should not be confused with support for the war. On the contrary: Americans’ assessments of the war are grim. A majority in the September Times/CBS News poll said the United States should not be involved in Afghanistan now, up 15 percentage points since December. And most said the war was going badly, down from its peak but well above the reading in the early years of the war, when broad majorities said it was going well.

That's like saying, "Yes, I don't support having this cancer but the real problem is I don't feel good." Well, trust me, pal, you're certainly enacting a permanent solution for your disease by ignoring it: six feet underground. Americans are angry, but they are angry like someone who gets the bill after running up his credit card. What exactly are we expecting? Good times? There's no contrition, just "Get me out of this mess!" But no one wants to see if we need a new foundation, that's not even part of the discussion. Only bad people have to change, good thing we're the good guys!

It's true the world is a dangerous place and there are those bent on killing us regardless, but we're all going to die anyway. The choice remains: we can die doing the right thing or the wrong thing. It's sheer folly to believe we can control the world and yet that's our agenda and stated goal ("Can't let the nukes fall in the wrong hands!"). Instead of maintaining our beacon of light we are extinguishing it in the name of freedom and self-preservation. This I can tell you: if you don't see the reason to leave Afghanistan now you never will until it's too late.

As we continue down this path with no one standing for peace, that leaves us in our minds with the only seeming solution of increasing war as bombing operations for Iran commence. War is a burden and there's no such thing as a good one. Our blind faith in the idea it's keeping us safe is hopelessly naive. The so-called terrorists can't kill us, only we can do that. If we start doing the right thing it will snowball us in the other direction. Admitting a mistake won't kill us, but not admitting it certainly will:

Until the unemployment rate begins to fall dramatically, most Americans seem to feel that they cannot afford to focus on the war. “Jobs are the prevailing issue for everyone right now — we need to focus on jobs,” said one poll respondent, Michael Santalucia, a 47-year-old Democrat from Beavercreek, Ohio. “I don’t know how much we can do about Afghanistan right now, but we can do something about jobs here.”


Monday, October 18, 2010

Jonathon Isn't Speaking Anymore

It happened Tuesday night. Or rather, Tuesday night was the last time anyone's heard him talk. Yes, many people do withdraw when first entering the shelter, that's sort of expected, but a total shut down? You hope not to see that. Not often one gets the chance to mark the exact moment a person's soul dies. Tough to know what to do when you're present when someone actually enters the land of the Living Dead.

Homelessness takes a toll, some better equipped to pay than others. Jonathon is a white collar, white bread walking bag of soft dough who never "means no harm nor can take no harm" as one person described his type. His time in a world of cutthroats limited at best.

He told his story upon admission but rarely referred to it afterwards and then only obliquely. Jonathon turned out to be the rarest of birds: an honest banker (he was in charge of calculating risk assessment to be exact). Four years ago he'd blown the whistle on his bosses and for that he was promptly purged as a threat to the bank's profits and plunder. And this was in Charlotte, a banking town, where he was blackballed and run out of the industry.

It got worse. His wife left him, taking both their children, a boy and a girl. She remarried which - according to Jonathon - was to an investment banker who directly profited from the exact same means he'd blown the whistle on! His ex held no intent of her or her kids living in anything but luxury. Yet when he spoke of her he spoke with love still and at our periodic group "wound sharing time" he painfully recounted his thoughts of "that man inserting himself into her." The devastation on his face moved our usually hardy group to silence and we dispersed.

And now Jonathon himself speaks no more, the sands in his hourglass of hope having fallen through, a life devoid of simple pleasures. None dare touch him while in his shut down mode, the most extreme method of mental survival. He isn't walking on eggshells, he is an eggshell. Arrows flew in from every direction, in doing either right or wrong he saw death.

Even before this I'd kept an eye out for red flags from his having falling from the clouds. Many times it's in the seeming throwaway phrases you get the truest glimpse into a person's soul. Jonathon's flag was very subtle - so subtle I wondered if I'd only imagined it. But I trusted the instinct that made me sit up straight in my chair. He was backing out of the counselor's office, his wilting spirit saying, "That's OK. I understand you have no time for me."

Human needs give no quarter regardless of circumstance and to outsiders time may seem plentiful for the homeless - but it's time that belongs to our masters who hold the sustenance. In time our relentless desire for life will prove our salvation, casting off the chains of death. But in the meantime lies cruel death. Squirming sex happens even in the various shelters, echoes of lives lost - and hoped for once more. In the camps, rape is rampant but unreported. I've always wondered if that's due to the women having lost a sense of worth or from their having gained a savage understanding of survival - or both.

Knowing this, what to do for Jonathon? He'd spent one moment too many dreaming of his plush past and insular life. He'd questioned one too many times where was the reward for doing the right thing. And suffered one too many heartbreaks in the night imagining his wife climaxing with that vile, moneyed penis. And maybe it was also facing the realization he had no real skills outside the artificial world of banking. A life to be rebuilt from scratch.

Ricardo walks around smoking (outside only, of course!) these thin little cigars like you see in a Clint Eastwood western, like it makes him special or something. True or not, he never gives a damn about anyone's plight or sob story du jour and it's he who oftentimes has the courage to say what the rest of us think but don't dare utter. I both winced and jumped for joy when I saw he got a whiff of Jonathon's shut down and his silent, fixed stare.

"Hey, banker man, what kind of world you think you livin' in, man? " The stone man's eyes flickered. "You expecting fairy tales and cotton candy and happy ever after cuz you done "the right thing"? Don't work like that. You gonna get the shaft, homey!" Ricardo grinned around the room like a star performer. Knowing smiles from his fellow shaftees appreciated his expressed sentiment. He didn't bother to notice the darting movement of Jonathon's eyes. "What make you think the real mundo should never touch your gringo ass, eh? Nobody gets "fair". Not nobody, ever. You gotta live for ya-self."

Ricardo walked away, his job done: no self-pity on his watch. The best psychologists are the ones never paid - but are most cherished by the angels. I don't know if Ricardo's speech is enough to pull Jonathon out of his stupor or not. America is like a page slowly burning inward from the outer edges. We on the edges witness this burning helpless and voiceless as it takes life after life while the blind shudder in the middle hoping the flames die out before they too are consumed. slipping away...

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Kandi Kids, The Real Gen X(tasy)?

There are certain truths I know - that we all know - but cannot be said. But behind the haze grey of smoke we put out, putting on our masks and wearing our Sunday best, the truth still emerges. It's among the most vulnerable of us where we reveal ourselves. One community sees homeless and says, "Those lazy bums!" Yet another sees them as a sign we need to make life better. And in this way character is revealed.

Same way with our children. I'll never forget an interview I saw years and years ago where Mike Wallace said America basically doesn't like her kids. I just laughed my ass off and wondered if he was going to be shellacked for violating the holy propaganda we hold our children dear. But he got away with it because he spoke a truth we all know (though never acknowledge) but he had the courage to say.

The world today is a nightmare and it's getting worse. Few realize the tsunami of grief that is headed our way. Grief like never before in human history, grief that will seal the lying mouth forever. Somewhere deep in our hearts we know our time on this path is short and that eats on us, driving us to further and further extremes. Permanent poverty, endless wars and sanctioned lies are no way to go through life, Dad.

This is what we do to other country's kids

Most people are bitter in the way their life turned out and when we reproduce we as parents desperately need our children to share in that bitterness lest we feel rejected. Basically, we want to beat the life out of the kids as we poetically marvel at the life still within them. But what shape does that leave our kids? Bloody hell, I'd say.

I've never taken Ecstasy(X). I've never taken prescription drugs either. But I've tried my assortment of chemical cocktails over the years and never really found the bang for the buck outside of a good joint. But it's raining X down on kids today and I wonder what effect it would have had on me in my school years. You see, I still know what's like to need to get away from the pain.

That's the title of an article from Fort Worth Weekly, a great local alternative newspaper. The article details the X life today:

The kandi kid is rolling hard. His sweaty teenage face is bathed in a supernaturally bright light, even though the surrounding rave is lit only by colored lasers and black lights. The kid is obviously in a rapturous trance. His face is full of awe and gratitude, his eyes gigantic, his body completely void of tension. His wrists, ringed by the fluorescent plastic bracelets that unofficially mark him as a member of the kandi gang, hang tranquilly at his sides. He wants to hug the whole world, and that tangible vibe seems to stretch out before him infinitely. He is a perfect picture of Ecstasy.

The source of this young man’s total devotion? Another kid, his white clothes incandescent in the black lights, waving gloved hands in his friend’s face, the fingers tipped with multicolored LED lights.

I realize that those for inflicting damage upon our children will differ in their opinion but I say there's no time to be a kid anymore. Massive fucking homework to waste their youth, always "preparing" them for a "real" world that is out of control, and basically adults fearing them because we know our intentions are not good (just ask an Afghan). So I look to see how - and how much - kids are coping with the pressures.

This is not a scene from the famous Dallas clubs in the 1980s, but from an August weekend in a warehouse party in the shadow of downtown Fort Worth. And the new chemical-tribal ritual wasn’t connecting only these two kids. They were surrounded by hundreds of their peers.

In the last three decades, Ecstasy, known chemically as MDMA, has been in and out of favor as the drug of choice. Right now, it is raining Ecstasy in certain young Fort Worth circles. Local high school students and former students interviewed for this story guessed that a third to half of the kids in area high schools take Ecstasy regularly — as in every weekend.

Don't get me wrong, the earliest letter ever found was of a father chastising his son to do better. We've always said "kids today suck" and are "not as good as we were back in the day." I'll leave that argument to the jerk-offs. Times change but we as a people have yet to. But like a bow being drawn ever farther out we are reaching a breaking point. The most tender among us will be the first to snap. Bullying isn't on the rise for nothing.

“Getting drugs at school is the easiest thing you can do,” said one student.

“It’s an epidemic all around,” said a recent Paschal High School graduate, wearing purple rubber Paschal sunglasses. “Whenever I bring the word up, everyone agrees.”

In some ways, it’s a gentle epidemic. Most researchers believe that pure MDMA is relatively safe for occasional use. The problem is, only some of what’s on the street is pure.

“Forty percent of what’s on the street isn’t even X,” Haenes said. Many of the pills contain methamphetamines or DXM, and some have even turned out to be PCP. Ecstasy is not physically addictive, but some users get psychologically attached to it. Even its proponents believe that it can cause problems, especially when youngsters take it too often. Kids didn’t invent the phrase “E-tard” for nothing.

Another day, another mindless DEA raid

Not much is fully known about X because, like always, anytime the repressed cocksuckers see people having fun they have to kill it. The DEA in its infinite hate (with a phony and pious face) have marked this as a drug most dangerous:

However, when Ecstasy’s fan base shifted from professionals to partiers, DEA agents began to take notice. Worried about the explosive growth in use of the drug, DEA officials used emergency measures to make Ecstasy a Schedule I narcotic on July 1, 1985. Based on scientific studies that were later called into question, the DEA categorized Ecstasy as one of the most dangerous substances floating through society. Despite the recommendation of DEA Chief Administrative Judge Francis Young, who believed MDMA should be listed as a Schedule III drug with potential medical benefits, like prescription cough syrup, the DEA decided to make it illegal to everyone, including the medical community.

Most mass distributors gave up the chase or moved their operations out of the country or underground, but the drug’s proponents in the field of psychology were outraged. By 1985, therapists were making major strides in treating people with MDMA. Many military veterans, rape victims, and others suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder were able to make peace with their traumas after MDMA therapy sessions. People in dysfunctional relationships were able to stop the battles they had been waging against each other.

The DEA’s decision disregarded those breakthroughs and findings, however. And in the process, the agency changed the Ecstasy story from that of a potentially powerful tool for improving the human experience to just another currency in the war on drugs, and turned its users into criminals.

Courtesy FW Weekly

The decision gives the DEA the one and only thing it truly wants and seeks: more power. It says much about us how we let their false morality ruin lives and give us the highest incarceration rate in the world. Driving it underground only makes X more dangerous for our kids as it allows any sort of crap to be put into the non-standardized pills.

Regardless of where it comes from, all the X out there today is a product of the black market, so users seldom know what the pills with happy faces and clever imprints actually contain. Pure MDMA is difficult to produce and obtain, regardless of what the dealers at the raves may claim, so kids are often ingesting a chemical cocktail based on dirty, addictive meth or unresearched chemicals.

According to, which publishes the chemical composition of pills submitted from all over the world, recently tested “Ecstasy pills” were combinations of MDMA with anything from MDA (X’s speedier cousin), amphetamines and piperazines (more commonly used to de-worm horses), to DXM (the chemical used in cough suppressants that can induce a semi-conscious, impulse-driven state.) The purple pills imprinted with the Superman logo floating around the warehouse party, for example, supposedly have a high concentration of methamphetamine.

We know we aren't providing a future for our kids. We use up their tomorrows in our today. Guilt always leads to bad decisions and false solutions. Honesty is the first step back on the road to wellness and we have to get things out into the open in order to address them. We as alleged adults need to say: "We're assholes. We fucked up the world. Please forgive us."

Despite having taken MDMA just two days before the interview, the recent Paschal graduate said he wants to get out from under X. But, “It’s not easy,” he said. “I wish I could have had someone tell me to stop and look at the big picture … People don’t stop and think about the reaction you have when the drug is gone. Mentally, it brings you down. With MDMA, you get really depressed. Shit is hard at home, and you are failing at school because you want to sleep all day. It’s a snowball. It won’t stop.”

I can't imagine being a kid today. As always, they have only each other to cling to in a world of adults with lies to protect. Life just keeps speeding up! In the twentieth century we shot all the dreamers. Here in the twenty first we reap the crushing nightmare of a dreamless planet.


Afterlife rave club in Dallas. Jackboot cops raid them at the end for "failure to hate life".

Kids, gotta love 'em! If only we didn't screw them up.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Worship My God Or Die!

You shall not make for yourself any carved image, or any likeness of anything that is in Heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth; you shall not bow down to them nor serve them. For I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers on the children to the third and fourth generations of those who hate me, but showing mercy to thousands, to those who love Me and keep My commandments.

I've heard people laugh at this commandment, blindly self-assured of our vastly greater awareness of reality than our ancestors of yore. Voodoo and superstition are things of yesteryear, we know better. But do we really? Hell fucking no! We haven't changed one damn bit.

Laughing at the above commandment is the same as laughing at this homeless girl and all like her:

She doesn't live in Africa or any other (currently) impoverished nation. She lives in Indianapolis, in America, where we have no shortage of food or any other resources. So why is she forced to the streets? Voodoo and superstition, what else? Sure as hell ain't because we're in touch with reality!

I know what you're brainwashed brain is thinking: "I is two sofisticatered fer ewes to fewl me, Hairy!" Well, pardon me for shoving that latte up your arse. Below is a picture that will provide the empirical data that you too are a heathen worshipper of a wooden god that has no eyes or ears but we all pretend does. Savages all!

Billion Dollar Bill
Imagine dummies robbing and killing for this!

That's right, it's a billion dollar bill. "But Harry, my brainwashed brain says that's not real!" Really, how do you know, pray tell? It's ink and paper and every day in this world we trade lives for ink and paper. That's what makes us earthlings so damn funny! We're so possessed by our bullshit without a clue how ridiculous we look to the rest of the universe. Maybe you think I'm being mean but just think how you'd feel watching an ancient ancestor prostrate himself before a statue and actually fucking talk to it like it can hear.

And so we too allow a god without eyes or ears determine who lives and who dies, who gets healthcare and who dies slowly, who lives indoors and who suffers from exposure. Call me radical but I'm calling stupid on that. We suffer for no fucking reason! There's no such thing as "real" money anywhere but in our heads. My billion dollar bill is just as legitimate as any other ink on paper. You need only believe it for it to be true! Let Harry's brainwashing begin!

U.S. Economy Is 11.5 Million Jobs Short

That's a headline from an article I saw at Huffington Post. Sounds depressing, huh? But not a lick of it is true, sheer fabrication. Never has more work needed to be done than now. Our entire transportation and energy infrastructure needs to be moved off fossil fuels and onto renewable energy sources. I don't know about you, but a World War II style movement in that direction would drastically raise my hopes for the future!

But instead, we are bound by superstition, ruled by an imagined space god of the mind. "Ewe is likey soooo stoopid, Hairy! Weeze cants affordabull ta bee greene!" I swear, when the aliens land, I'm claiming none of you. See, you talk about money as if it were as real as nature. Let me tell you what happens when you destroy nature: you die! And let me tell you what happens when you destroy money: nothing! I'm constantly amazed how often I hear the contaminated mind say, "We can't monetarily afford to survive as a species." Speak for yourself!

It's on a chart! It must be real!

Contamination is rampant and pervasive. Ever hear one of those health and wealth preachers speak? Take their sermon and replace the word "money" with God and get a whole new perspective. That goes for any conservative Christian too. If they were honest I'd be OK with it but no one comes right out and puts a bumpersticker on their car that says, "Money Saves!" Maybe we think we're clever enough to trick God. Frankly, I think we're boring the hell out of Her.

We now interrupt this unimportant message for an important one:

If you met her you'd cry too

Now that was a beautiful message! Which leads me to the pressing question: Holocausts, good or bad?

Little Esther was confused. "Daddy, does God listen to prayers?"

"Of course He does. You have reason to believe otherwise?"

"Well...I mean...six million Jews died in the Holocaust. Didn't any of them pray? Why didn't God save them from the camps? It was horrible to read about!"

"I think He would say He didn't put any of them in there."

"Then that means it's all up to us to fix everything."

"I should think so! How else can life have meaning?"

"I don't know. It's just that...well, what if nobody cares? What if everyone agreed the Jews should die?"

"Then I would say everyone who thinks that should die, wouldn't you?"


And yet, we continue our holocaust upon the poor because we all agree it should be so. Every day we hold humanity hostage to illusion. No food for you, little girl! No medicine for you, old man! No freedom allowed for you lazy artists! One Ring to rule them all. One Ring to find them. One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them. Don't speak to me of human nature, it's yourself you damn with your perfidy. We were made to love and love is a jealous God when we refuse Her.

Trust me, I know.

Monday, October 11, 2010

The Reluctant Robber

I finally got up the nerve to look. Scared the shit out of me to sneak around in her back alley but it just kept eating me too much not to know. Expecting a spotlight to suddenly appear followed by squad cars screeching up behind me, I started digging through her trash in the early evening darkness. Sure enough, I found them, each one pristine and cavalierly tossed aside: none of my letters had been opened.

Used to she at least read them.

I've lost the rights to ring her front doorbell or even be near her house where I was once unbelievably an honored guest. Those were heady days. Now I'm another despised snake in the grass. So I slithered away from her swank digs back to my cardboard abode. How humiliating to live in a place where no one can be invited. And yet, I still pretend to live a normal life at all costs, always the fateful poser. I reek of illusion.

The more truth I speak of myself, the more they make me up.

"Oh, you seem far too normal to live a cardboard box. Most people are much more fucked up than your image appears to be. Oh - haha! I see you rustling your hair to look more destitute! You're a funny guy! But you can't put a lie past me. I always know a lie when I see one: it's when I'm forced to believe anything inconvenient."

Well, isn't that convenient?


I sulk inside my home/hell. I have nightmares whenever I fall asleep. People are after me, chasing me like the Frankenstein monster: they don't know why they have to kill me, they just know they do. But do I stay on the run only to avoid my life? I don't know anymore, the trauma of sleep is taking my mind. I stagger across the globe lost and vexed and stymied.

This is not a home, but a cage.

I used to make a joke everyone speaks a different language than me only they won't tell me what it is. That's why my little worlds don't work. It's amazing the power I have! I call it Opposite Syndrome: the more I tell the truth the less I'm believed. But really, I think you people are fucking with me and really do believe me but just won't admit it. God damn you for that! But I cannot defeat you in a way that I can see.

Time has come for me to die.

I'm going to prove my point and force you bastards to break the Opposite Syndrome once and for all, assholes. And I'll do it with the one thing you fuckers value more than life itself: your money. That'll get you to stop your damn lying and put an end to your game of fucking me and denying me. Is the reason you keep crucifying everyone because you're still trying to prove you weren't wrong with Jesus? Are you afraid that if you stop now that's like admitting you're wrong?

I got news for you: you were wrong then and wrong now!

So I grabbed my trusty (unloaded) Glock Subcompact and headed down to the bank (this means you Bank of America!). On this I will not be denied! I brought my gun up directly to the teller's face and demanded she hand over all the money. She twitched her nose in irritation and replied:

"Do you have an account with us?"

"Fuck no, I don't have an account. This is a stick up! Fork over the money, honey!"

"Without a withdrawal slip, sir, I can't help you - even if you do rhyme."

"I am robbing you! This is a R-O-B-B-E-R-Y. I am a bank robber! What fucking more do I need to do?"

"If you would put your name on the sign in sheet we will gladly open an account for you!" She smiled oh so sweetly. I fought the urge to open an account to oblige.

"Look, dammit. I'm a bank robber. Like Dillinger and shit. Get it?"

"I realize you believe that. But that's not who you really are, silly boy!"

"Would all you fuckers please stop telling me who I am or how I fucking feel! I'm going out of my mind here!"

"I can recommend a therapist I-"

"Stop! Just stop! I give up. I'm going to my grave with not one fucker believing a word I say EVER. Maybe I should go to the Middle East and tell them they all hate each other. Only I could make an Arab and Jew hug just to spite my fucking ass. I've got to get off this cursed planet!"

No one takes me seriously!

With drooping head and my hand hanging heavy with the disregarded threat of my gun I exited the bank, the security guard opening the door for me of all things. I smiled wryly to allay fears of my weapon. "Don't worry. I'm not trying to rob the bank or anything."

That's when he drew his gun and taking a wide stance barked out to me, "Drop that gun or you're a dead man! He's trying to rob the bank!"

I dropped my gun in shock. The teller I previously approached ran up to me, slapping my face. "How dare you after all I did for you!"

Flabbergasted, I pointed her to the security guard. "Why the fuck do you believe it when he says it but not me?"

"Do not impugn his character, you creep." It was like she was talking to a date who'd gotten fresh. "He knows what he's talking about. You do not!"

All sorts of confusing thoughts streamed through my mind while I was pressed on the floor as the police cuffed me and read me my rights. I thought of hiring the security guard as a "translator" for me. He could tell them I'm robbing the place and to give me the money. They'd believe his sorry ass. Ah, Jesus, what a mind fuck this is! I just want to go back to my cardboard box and never speak again. I know not where hope lies.


Epilogue: I got out of jail time by pleading guilty. The judge tongue lashed me for falsely confessing and I felt like telling him I was not fucking his wife just so he'd think I was. But I stayed silent, unable to fight the wind that blows my spirit to the heavens. Now I sit in the dark, seething, my eyes peering out, knowing what they see but powerless to speak it. The end is coming and I must be patient.

When the Lamb broke the seventh seal on the scroll, there was silence throughout heaven.
Revelation 8:1


Tuesday, October 05, 2010

Signs Of Reality

They called it the New City. Set in the mountains in a place few thought possible, its citizens were of the New Way, mandating no lowly queen or king but a Beautiful Way for all. This made the New City a destination for peoples from lands near and far. Only one little problem remained: the ground under the city contained poisonous gas and the more they built on it, the more gas was released. At some point it was an issue that would trump its very existence.

They knew this but said, "But just look how beautiful life is for everyone!"

All who counted anyway, for many were the slaves who labored underground among the gases, directing them away from the Good Life enjoyed by the privileged. The slaves were bribed with the promise of an eventual life above ground so then they could be the masters of profit. In this way greed was trusted to bind them all from high to low. The world was made perfect - except no one told the gases.

High in the mountains a poisonous cloud gathered deep in the gathering doom, fed each passing second by the New City's growing weight of desire. As the skyscrapers reached higher, the gases pressurized the underground canyons, requiring more and more slave bodies to divert the poison from the good citizens' lives. Soon, more were living below ground than above it.

"But just look how beautiful life is for some!"

Then one day a prophet came down from the mountain with news of the poisonous cloud. "The poison is in nature's hands now, you have no say in its path of wrath. Repent and put all your efforts into dissipating it before it's too strong to stop! Otherwise you will have to abandon your land." But the good citizens had important plans made and hopeful lives to live they did not want interrupted. So they trusted the devil's oldest lie: that to disprove the prophet meant to disprove their reality.

A Political Man of clever argument said to the prophet: "Look up and tell me what you see!"

"Clear blue sky."

"Exactly! It's people like you who are the real problem, always stirring up imaginary trouble, trying to make life hard. Now shut the fuck up!"

This started a vigilante political movement named the STFU party scouring the city for any and all defenders of the cloud of poison, dogmatically demanding proof in the sky before they give proof of the eye, the only accepted kind. "We are the true patriots. Damn those who question our ways and our great city! There are some who seek only to criticize but we are the holders of truth and shall relentlessly attack its enemies!" A mad furor erupted in applause.

The STFU party proved most popular with the many seeking salvation by simply voting for the cloud's non-existence.

Until one day a small part of the cloud broke off and descended over one of the most precious places in the great city, wreaking death and devastation. For the first time the City new true fear: fear of themselves and the need to change. The STFUer's were duly panicked - but perversely savvy. "Don't let fear persuade you! Be brave! We must stick to our Good Ways at all costs! It is the slaves who caused this problem. Butcher them for their treachery!" And the slaughtering of innocents commenced.

They can't blame their precious selves so they have to kill somebody

Many other solutions were tried and died in vain. No matter how many "bad people" were killed, life never got better. In fact, a permanent haze drifting from the cloud landed on the city, choking its residents and killing the weakest among them. And still it was said, "There's no other way for us to live." A Mandate of Responsibility was handed down: Breathe less air. And thus the good citizens wreathed great pity around their necks.

But nothing could stop the tightening fear constricting their hearts. No one wanted to leave - but no one wanted stay either! "Give us change without change!" the cry went out. A New Hero God Leader emerged, promising to give them all that they asked. But when reality did not change for the better the masses deeply divided on definition of said reality. Those who believed life had actually changed demanded faith in the New Hero God Leader, those for only blindly building more called for a return for the old ways that never left.

A few - the outlandish, the radical, the too absurd to believe - called for finding a solution to the cloud of poison at all costs - the rest united in hatred for those of that ilk. Oftentimes it was posed: Why are we getting angrier and angrier?

Poppy flowers of denial seeped into their sleepy heads begging for a new reality. The New Hero God Leader climbed up the weathervane tower and through a triumph of the will turned the vane from south to east, indicating the cloud was now headed away. "See! Problem solved! I have stopped the panic and brought you change without change." He made impassioned speeches to trust his politic narcotic, berating and scoffing at nonbelievers, his firm conviction lying in the selling of reality as the only true hope.

Some were of a different religion: "God will never hold us accountable for our actions! If He does not fix our world, He does not exist!" Some demanded an apology: "I don't care which way the weathervane points, the wind blows south. And yet I see no cloud! Everyone's lying but me! Our city is actually fine!" Some clung to the New Hero God Leader, imploring trust in his straight teeth and manicured hair. In these ways the good citizens hoped to escape responsibility.

But of course yet came the Killing Wind, the angel of death. The City being in a natural low point drew in the fatal poison, leading the cloud to hover and settle. Was this the end? Heated arguments drove the populace to madness, murdering over words, choking throats of dissent. As fresh air ran out, the stronger strangled the weaker to grab the remaining good gasps. A few left the city, mocked and derided as they headed for the harsh life off the beloved mountain where the city dwellers steadfastly refused to give aid lest they be proven wrong in their choice to stay.

But as always, nature had the last laugh. In dying breaths the fate of Nature was cursed and reviled but really, who ever asked them to build on poison?