Saturday, November 20, 2010

untitled

Newborn infant?
   There’s an app for that.
  It’s a strange new world, Jack;
and it’s nowhere near
     the Arthur C Jetson
  post-war dream, once promised.
      1+1=5;
and in December of 2012, you’ll
      be two—and the world will end.

The earth and sky fell to the Capitalists
        who put write name here
    in the White House/Capital Building.
Most recently, on the home front,
   a Tranny from Alaska
 shows that “she’s” the biggest
        swinging dick, squatting
in Monticello, with a mob of
  blue collar picketing dipshits,
       denigrating the corpse of
a founding father, mocking him
  as the embodiment of his fear;
 teabagging the rest of us, jaws
        agape in disbelief.
Public discourse is dead;
        wanna go ride bikes?

  Plastic Glow-in-the-dark Christs,
American Flags (made in China)…
Not much is sacred, Sobrino.
       We bankrupted your education,
   your future, your freedom, your planet;
all for petty family grudges…
      my friend, Benny, died
          for their feud.
Nearly a decade of war; but
   as long as someone else pays
 the price…

  In this banana and apple republic we’re
    building [no war but class war],
  filtering bullshit will be
          the only full-time
   job you won’t be able to outsource;
and it will be low-paying, hard work.
Your great-grandparents were
      part of the Greatest Generation.
    They understood that there is
                    nothing
         without hard work and sacrifice.
 In such a short time,
      we’ve forgotten their lessons;
  but who’s got time for thermodynamics?
    It’s such a dry subject, anyway.
Our call of duty is to buy buy buy
  (read: borrow borrow lose the house).
     We can blame this manifest pathology
   on past destinations—my obesity
  has everything to do with my genetics
  and nothing with the exercising of my
  freewill…
Forgive us, we are but helpless
      crippled victims.  You’ll have to
   solve the problems.

But you have to laugh, Baby James.
      You really do.  Find the humor:
  A naturalized Aussie pushes
        propaganda against immigration—
   a subject your mother may have a thought
      or two to share.
And then, there’s the women of the GOP…
       Irony is the foundation of most of Life’s
                punch lines; you’ll figure that out
            soon enough, I’m sure.

Beware, but don’t be afraid, Young One.
   They’ve had The Bomb for over
  half a century…
        Live, laugh, love,
     because life is an adventure
       of endless discovery,
   full of honeysuckles, bee stings,
        ocean waves, mustard seeds,
              and girls.
You’ll figure that out, in due time.

Friday, November 19, 2010

Dependability

It's good to know some things are dependable.  Jackass 3D was all I had hoped for: an hour and a half of juvenile high jinks, nut-shots, puke, poop, farts, fat asses, midgets, and Bam being a prissy bitch.  And it was in 3D; what more could you want?

It would be nice to get the same from life.  For better or worse, life loves the curve ball.  One minute, you're Dudley Do-Right; the next, your neck is sore from being cast as Snidely.  Sometimes, the change comes from out of nowhere; but more often than not, the signs were all there, you were just too wrapped up in what you wanted the world to be to notice that you just got left behind, bitch.  But, oh-bla-dee oh-bla-dah, so it goes...

Karma is heartless and mechanical; you get what you deserve, even if you don't think you deserve what you got.  Same as it ever was.

Saturday, November 06, 2010

two poems, six years

1:58am sobriety:
What is this
           need to reject history;
  the need to self-animate,
 to self-sustain?
      white chip tokens of loneliness
               and porch swing longing…
    Once upon a time, I
          could love myself;
yet, as true as neurochemical changes
     yielding new identities,
  the past is no more real than—
        She is but an icon
    with a billion different names to learn
and I hate my face,
      photographs make this only too real.
    I just need someone to be there
                                     for me;
     but I’ve found no way to silence these
sledge hammer synapses pounding
   in echoed harmony
         with dopamine deficiency,
a ringing distraction in my hollowed out
                cranial cavity,
           like a gangrened ghost limb, still itching
to be cut off—
          I play.

      Love is just an organic compound;
               drink deep.

2:04am stumble:
Is this the last swig?  Just
      one last pull, another shot to the gut…
         a twinge of jealousy and
  I’m reeling. It’s just my way; or simply
      chemistry and biological drive.
   Tell me, when
                will I feel calm?
With time, head throbbing pound
      dulls to a hum, and
  red vision gives way to
      low light, eventual
  hindsight: I know I was wrong.

Apologies, broken wings,
   just two birds lost along their way home…
Cynicism tells me
     it’s just an evolutionary trick.
And yet, I yield.
    The icon has, now, only her face,
          only her tattoos…

Here’s my ten bleeding fingers
    cradling broken bottles, my
  bruised knuckle tokens of
     openness; yet, blood
  runs dry and scars, too, will fade
        like photographs kept
                 in shoe boxes,
     blacken to faint memory,
and she’ll shine in another sky.
Will I disappear?

As days go by,
 my mind clears, revealing me
        stunned
by my own reflection
      looking back
                    too clearly…
I swore I’d never go there, again;
   dragged myself down, friend,
    down, down, down,
                                  down.

Love is an organic compound;
       may our cups overflow.

Friday, October 22, 2010

Shouts and Echos

When all is tangentially related,
   pushing and pulling,
  shining
        reflecting—
   Self becomes a metaphor

Am I not
         what I am?

So, where is the meaning in "Tree?"

   I am shouts and echos.
        My reality defines
             and is defined—
                              by me?

Intention is subtle, discrete, hidden,
    when causality governs
  an ordered cosmos,
             as below and above...

Chaos is a product of
    sequential thought
        and perspective limitation;
  but all is meaningless
      without a reference point.

  I am a fractal, started circa 1984;
     yet, my bones are much
                        much older.

I was born on the cusp of Aquarius.
I enjoy high speed
               burns
           —stoned—
     to the beach to
               catch the sunrise
          to clear my thoughts.
Would you believe me if I told you I get told I have an old soul,
a lot?
and it only matters when I think of one
other human being on this planet of six
billion, plus, schmucks and assholes;
myself included—
infants, though, are exempt.
    you're probably not her;
   so, I don't fucking care for your
   fluff.

Tell me, Boddhisattva, if I shatter
        I and I, erase ego,
     mute myself
            do I exist to cease;
   become something else;
                   or...

University

You, standing on ivory towers,
 do you believe in your gut,
     in your answers,
   in your paper, brick, mortar...

Can you tell me the way to Enlightenment?

 Your theories are disjointed;
     that is from ego.
My thoughts are disjointed;
   and that is from ego.

An Academic, an Autodidact, and a Sophist
 are in a bar;
      who's the one serving drinks?

I want to shout my throat raw,
   inhale until my lungs burst,
  beat my chest until my cage collapses,
 explode

I want to sit
   until I dissolve.

If I am my own metaphor—

       What happens if I finish that as a statement?

Thursday, October 21, 2010

So it goes...

It’s fitting or
  fucking funny;
        don’t you think?
You slipped that note to me,
    the one about touch,
as your hand
     cupped to shield the
         flame
   as I lit your cigarette—
 sparks leaping
across that slight unbearable
               gap
        between our skin.
And now, I’m the one
      who must remind
    my self
  to keep my hands
     to myself. I must
        remember
 not to run my fingers
    through your hair;
  not to touch the small
        of your back;
    to ignore the cut of
          your dress;
to overlook your raw
            thumbs—
and you stay just
          out of reach…
 Now, my breakfast of
     nicotine and caffeine
  is just an excuse to
 skip on brushing my teeth;
I fall asleep to self-indulgent tokes and
     trite poems about a girl;
  and my future's not so clear.

C’est la vie, no?

Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Petal and Chaff

       Late spring bloom wilted
   well before autumn, questioning
patience and faith in serendipity;
   begging questions of latency
 or laziness; since I stood
    there plucking—
  She loves me…
      she loves me not…
I am foolish.
  What sway could the destruction
     of this simple thing of beauty
          have over Fate?
None. I'm grasping at straws,
     not binding wheat for harvest.
  Soon, the leaves will turn
and fall from the trees,
     like the time that slips
             through
               my fingers…
But talent and aptitude only
      get you so far, boy. Ambition
   and hard work, they are
               the crucial elements…

Butterfly Screams and One-handed Claps

Well now, James Douglas,
     what have you?
  Prancing lion, slinking black leather,
      shedding snake skin
   for whiskey bloat—
the sun sets in the
                                 west.
Some might say; but really,
     is booze the muse?
    Not to mention,
  who wants to be
       another drunk cliché?
My scars mock like a
     clown's face paint.
Philosopher poet, self
        taken way too seriously,
               bottled ego boost, sped
   self-destruction.
I am no saint.
     I've fucked without
   emotion; and
I've had my heart set
     ablaze,
  snuffed and torn from my chest
    and stomped.
Learn to forget, and life
                         is beautiful.
     Just the same,
   I grow my beard to
             hide my face.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Stand, Crawl, Walk

Again, I'm left asking,
    Where do I stand?
 The repetition of this question
   makes an abstraction of
   firm ground for foundation...

The foolish man builds his house
          upon the sand;
An idiot dreamer sets castles
             in the clouds;
   Drunks and junkies hit rock bottom...

If the earth is in motion,
   where do the wise settle?

               ***
Teetering backwards,
     running in place—
   this place stinks of
                   stagnation.
Fall again,
        raw knee crawl,
   up again
            and shaking.
No, I suppose it doesn't
    take that much
       to shake us
  to pieces; not when
 she moves and earth
    trembles,
  the ground crumbles
     in tiny quakes
        beneath our feet.
When the dust storm settles,
   what will be left
                for me
                         here?
               ***
   Tell me,
 when is the time to
     walk away?
When should I light
   my way with
 bridges burning
      behind?
Am I free?
      26
   unmarried/single
     no kids
  If so,
where do I go?
  The limtless horizon
  is dizzying;
loyalty and tacit
     devotion
  hold heart strings
    like anchors—
The world won't stop
   without me,
     nor should it—
  So, again,
 when does the time
    come to
walk away?

I still can't think of
anywhere I'd rather be...

Tuesday, September 07, 2010

Paths

A major question I've been asking myself, as of late, is "where am I?"

It's not the most comfortable question to ask. Honestly, I don't like many of the answers...hardly any, in truth. But it is an important question--only by knowing where I stand can I hope to pick out my direction, my path. I could say that "here I sit, brokenhearted; tried to shit but only farted." It's somewhat true, right? Something's brewing in my guts...

I don't have the concentration, right now, to finish this post. I'll return to the ideas later.

Monday, September 06, 2010

a horoscope that reads like a long-winded fortune cookie written by my mom

"Take the direction you know is best for you, and leave all self-destructive paths behind. In fact, go ahead and erect barriers and 'No Trespassing' signs, if that helps remind you not to tread ways that ultimately proved to be unhealthy for you. Some might accuse you of being 'too good' for your old friends or old ways, and they're right--you're far too good to waste yourself on behaviors that wreck your potential. Your instincts are wiser than any outside influence."

Generally, I'm of Jim Morrison's opinion of horoscopes. I read them, they amuse me, especially reading multiples for the same day, from different sources--there's just one night sky, right? Overall, they're way off, or to quote, "bullshit;" the one (from the same source) for yesterday sure as fuck was. This was from my phone, my MEdia Net page, from astrology.com--funny enough, while trying to be lazy and copy and paste, I found that this wasn't the horoscope on the astrology.com web page; perhaps it's proof of quantum multiverses: check one reading and it's one universe, check another... I digress.

I've been very good at self-sabotage over the past decade, much to the chagrin of friends and family, and myself, when I step back and think about it. It is exhausting. I've long since been tired of it--eventually, running with both knees and both feet shot out by your own gun goes from "romantic" to "just plain fucking dumb." It's an easy pattern to fall into; perhaps, even so common as to be mundane. I'm not the first person to back down from pushing my potential as far as I can, for fear of failure, thus accepting safe and predictable self-prophesied and perpetuated failure. Admitting your problem is the "first step;" I'm really good at that one--think of me as a martyr for hire...

I don't seem to be much further along than I've been since somewhere around 2003. That's frustrating. I dig myself out of this hole just enough to have more dirt for burying; I get my head just enough out of the water to find some more weights to strap on. But, again, I'm good at admitting; and even better at the resulting self-flagellation (but how else does one get into heaven?).

So, where am I? What are the self-destructive behaviors I've come to think of as just facts of personality? What the fuck am I supposed to be doing with my life?

Those first two questions are pretty easy to answer, at least compared to the third. Given that it's now 7:30am, I'll give an answer to the second: staying up until 7:30am is a self-destructive behavior.

Well, here's some topics to return to; maybe I'll have some intelligent words to go with my ranting. Maybe, I'll write with some regularity.

For now, bed.

Sunday, March 07, 2010

4 years later

Well, here it is four years later. I've finished that fucking epic, still haven't finished the degree, still in fucking Chapel Hill... working on it though. Bush is gone. Obama's a politico. A chunk of glacier the size of a small European country broke off of Antarctica. Rights to Arctic Ocean shipping lanes are being argued over. Justin's going to Afghanistan tomorrow. Things change, things stay the same.

Saturday, February 18, 2006

for feb iss of bp...

Late Respects: Hunter S Thompson (1937-2005)

Do my experiences date from yesterday? It is a long time since I experienced the reasons from my opinions. Should I not have to be a barrel of memory, if I wanted to carry my reasons, too, about me?Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Nietzsche

Though he may have hummed “let me forget about my day until tomorrow,” I don’t think that Hunter S Thompson was the sort of character who would allow himself to forget. Call it an occupational hazard, but to understand a system as well as Hunter did, to the point of making brilliant satire, one must be a never ending gluttonous greedy whore of a history junkie. Though he had admitted that he lived much longer than he had gambled on, he had an aspect to him that made him more than just one of “the mad ones.” His, “Shit, why not?” hid deep-seeded terror, and yet he pushed and dedicated himself to ever-tracing that “edge.”

But now, can one truly believe his claim that “it never got weird enough for [him]?”

HUNTER STOCKTON THOMPSON, 67, DEAD OF SELF INFLICTED GUNSHOT WOUND, FEB 20, 2005.

These were heavy words that echoed in my head on that rainy Monday of the 21st. How would Steadman illustrate the suicide of a senior-citizen Raoul Duke? I didn’t really want ponder these awful near-realities…

Though none of us had actually met him, within a large group of my friends there was a very real sense that we had lost one of our own, a hero, an older brother, a teacher. Globally, with phone calls, instant messaging, emails, and blogging, an entire community of people united through Thompson’s works was abuzz, sending each other words of condolences, laments, conspiracies, disbeliefs, and favorite anecdotes.

The Good Doctor’s ashes were blasted-out of a cannon, shaped like his iconic Gonzo fist, this past August at his Colorado ranch [see Omibus: Fear and Loathing in Gonzovision (1978)]. His friends gathered together—actors, artists, rock ‘n’ rollers, politicos—and there was drinking and celebration. But most revealing about this man’s impact; the stream of fans lining Woody Creek Road, leading up to the “compound.” He was loved, whether or not one had a personal relationship with him.

Though a self-declared failed novelist, Thompson has been the subject of two major motion pictures, is given much credit for Rolling Stone’s style and voice, and, though disapproving, the inspiration for the Doonesbury character “Uncle Duke.” And he ran for Sheriff of Aspen on the Freak Power ticket.

Hunter is credited for birthing a new style of journalism, Gonzo journalism, in his first collaboration with English cartoonist Ralph Steadman, “The Kentucky Derby is Decadent and Depraved.” But even before this desperate faxing of field notes, Thompson’s work on the Hell’s Angels helped make the modern investigative report a popular undertaking. He has become the source inspiration of too many terrible knock-offs; myself included.

He is said to have copied The Great Gatsby, in order to learn how to write a great novel; though not a novel, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is a masterpiece. What Fitzgerald was for the Jazz Age, Thompson was for the Freak/Hippie/Acid/Drug Culture. It wouldn’t surprise me if a Bruccoli-type character surfaces, obsessed with analyzing Hunter’s work. He was more than the mirror-shaded aviators, the fishing hat, the aqua-filter, the drugs, the nihilism, the idiosyncratic behavior and speech.

He was, in fact, friends with actors and rock ‘n’ rollers and politicos; and he was loved—Johnny Depp (who starred as “Raoul Duke” in Terry Gilliam’s adaptation of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas) funded most of the funeral, just so his “pal’s” last wishes were fulfilled. He rubbed elbows with big names; and with more than a few, he wasn’t afraid of rubbing them raw—a sad rarity today. Though perhaps hell-bent on toppling ivory towers because of anarchic psychosis expressed in violence, he did so with a sense of dedication and professionalism; he was, after all, a “doctor of journalism.” Thompson was and will remain a hero to Freaks everywhere; even as he was a critic of all Freaks, himself included.

Great art encompasses, represents, comes to define, and yet contrasts with an era, a life style, an ethos. Having read Thompson, I find it hard to read Wolfe’s Acid Test. Though Tom Wolfe is unquestionably a great American writer, his dealings with the Pranksters had a sort of soft blurred awe—his portrayal is perhaps less dark than what was required...no mention, as it were, of the “grim meat-hook realities.” In contrast, Thompson makes it blatantly clear that the Hippies failed, from an insider’s point of view. In real time, he brought the Madness that came to define the 60’s and 70’s into sharp focus. He made it the hip thing to hate Nixon, his arch-enemy, representative of all the evils Hunter saw permeating US politics; redeemed only for being a football fan. Even after the Crook keeled-over, Thompson wrote in an obituary that his body should be burned in a dumpster.

Sadly, as his celebrity grew and as the effects of his life-style began to take a toll on him, Thompson seemed to become a water-down version of Raoul Duke, minus Steadman’s illustrations. In a 1978 interview, he laments on the fact that he is never sure who people want him to be, Duke or Thompson; that his celebrity made it impossible for him to do his job. Though his peak was most certainly his work from the 70’s, Thompson remained a major figure in media. One can still weed through the Hollywood-naming-dropping-dribble of his ESPN.com “Hey Rube” posts to find examples of true artistry.

There’s something truly American about charging head long at high speed out of touch with reality toward one’s own demise. Where as Hemingway may have enjoyed his danger from the safety of the stands, Thompson would have painted himself red and run stark-ass naked through Pamplona howling blood-curdling screams through the thick of things, kicking bulls in their balls and laughing, probably on some sort of substance, guaranteed drunk, and he would be the first one through the gates to taunt the brave men with their swords…suggesting perhaps that they box the bulls to death, like real men, if they weren’t scared chicken shit. Thompson kept himself seeking “the edge.” Sometimes, he high-sided. Most times, he skated through with some karmic version of dumb-luck. But at all times, he accepted the challenge. “Buy the ticket, take the ride.” “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” Indeed, Good Doctor.

Granted, the hammer has to fall, but it’s the dichotomy that makes his death so hard to take... Had the decades of doom saying finally taken their toll on him? Did it have to do with Walter Cronkite moonlighting as MC at Bohemian Grove? Could it be his mind cracked when, just days before, Karl Rove and Jeff Gannon were named starting pitcher and catcher for the GOP intra-party softball team that summer? Was it related to his speculative claims that the Bush Administration isn’t totally innocent in the September attacks? Could it be his obsession with discovering what mutants killed off the Kennedy’s led him to it? What about the physical evidence? Where’s a goddamn autopsy report?

Regardless, Hunter S. Thompson will be known as one of the few who chronicled the “Death of the American Dream,” as it was happening. Though the persona may have done him in, it allowed him to get away with what he did: pure Gonzo. His intuitive knowledge of the political system and American society in general gave him the ability to, in the midst of chemically-fueled rhetorical neurosis, turn on a dime to make sobering, heart-breakingly accurate assessments of our culture. His professional obsession for facts allowed him to make light of some interesting points of US history. “How would Horatio Alger handle this situation?” The American Dream and Good Citizenship go together, hand-in-slightly-smaller-hand. Right.

So, here’s to the hope that Fear and Loathing: On the Campaign Trail ’72 will make it as summer reading here, one day soon. Mahalo, Doc.

Friday, December 23, 2005

the saddest part of this dark era in history, that of my potentially fair country sleep-goose-stepping its way into fascism, as the history books will eventually point out, is that all of this was done with consent, explicit and tacit...by the time people are shocked into the level of discontent necessary for revolt, it will be too late; either the rest of the world will tire of us, or we will be to the point of natural self-destruction and collapse...expansionism is illogical, it will be our undoing...

the us war for independence was a revolt from above. there were just enough elites who bought into enlightenment ideals to frustrate the absolute success of their fellow aristocratic british revolutionaries looking for a way out of paying taxes...sadly, the way around granting freedom has been discovered: peddle fear.

an interesting read...

IN CONGRESS, JULY 4, 1776
The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America

When in the Course of human events it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. --That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refuted his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their Public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.

He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.

He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected, whereby the Legislative Powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has obstructed the Administration of Justice by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary Powers.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harass our people and eat out their substance.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil Power.

He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:

For quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For depriving us in many cases, of the benefit of Trial by Jury:

For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences:

For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.

He has plundered our seas, ravaged our coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.

He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation, and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & Perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.

He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince, whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.
Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our British brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred. to disavow these usurpations, which would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. --And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.

Monday, October 31, 2005

No time...

ahhhh, 'tis the school year, indeed...full swing...midterms and too much coffee...

for anyone who still comes here, most of my creative talent will be applied in writing for Boiling Point, UNC's unapologetically progressive magazine...by far more ballsy than the Carolina Review...note the unfortunate sarcasm...

here's the shameless plug...

Speaking as a writer, I'll be candid about my thoughts on the editors...squares...especially one in particular...I may post full versions of the articles here...not sure...with any luck, my article for next month's issue will make it through that process a little more intact...and that's being optimistic that the other people who are supposed to be submitting articles come through on their part so that we can have an issue for November...jesus, I have a great disdain, well, love/hate relationship with deadlines, but moving it back three separate times (two if I concede that moving the first date because of fall break was at least somewhat legit...which I still got my article in...written on no sleep.....) I digress, moving the deadline back that many times, thus moving back the date that it hits the presses, thus moving back the date that it hits the public, is unprofessional, even for college students.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

A song...

Ejected out

into the dark sea stranded world

circa that Orwellian year

struck and set ablaze

like a signal flare

of generational distress

and discontent.

Now some two decades

of madness

and cultural slumping…

relegated out of place like

a landlocked lighthouse—

this is our beacon,

our hope

our drive

a desperation to shine

brighter than

that flypaper box

of streaming electron beams

and the Mtv race for

the bottom.

We are that oxidized-green light

and that longing

for a distant shore.

Give us your outcast,

your tired poor

with tear eroded raw cheeks

cut deeply in

mourning the death stillbirth

of the American Dream.

Friday, August 19, 2005

distractions...

ah sports...little league world series, nfl pre-season (fuck to and fuck espn for that new insider bullshit, fucking capitalists...), the nhl is back (though I think I'm still subconsciously holding a grudge), NCAA will be starting up soon...and before long, it'll be sweater weather again in beautifully depressing north carolina.

Monday, August 15, 2005

Don't leave me behind, just drop me off at point-zero and paint a target on my skull...

To being, steal a copy of Bad Religion's, "No Control" (and others, should you choose). Put them on repeat for the next two decades or so...

And when you have the tune nicely in your head, sing along...
BIG BANG
this isn't another new fashion, or a new wave plastic trend. everybody's searching for something but in the meantime let's all just pretend. i've got this feeling and i don't know what it is. this room is overcrowded, man, and i need air to breathe, yeah. big bang, big crunch, you know there's no free lunch. kneel down and pray, here comes your judgment day. big crunch, you know, it's gonna be quite a show. what comes around always goes around, yeah. a million hopeless faces dwell within protected walls, all waiting for a moment in life when they can heed the clarion call. and it's all so oppressive my mind feels like a sieve. this city's overcrowded, man, and i need room to live. big bang, big crunch, you know there's no free lunch. kneel down and pray, here comes your judgment day. big crunch, you know, it's gonna be quite a show. what comes around always goes around, yeah. i think of the countless shadows that have all come and gone, all suffering in the notion of better things to come. if you share these beliefs you know i wish you well, 'cause there's no room left in heaven and there's sure no room in hell, yeah. big bang, big crunch, you know there's no free lunch. kneel down and pray, here comes your judgment day. big crunch, you know, it's gonna be quite a show. what goes around always comes around.

So, PBU is going to be writing about doom and gloom... I guess I'll find out if I'm alone in being crazy, this should be fun.

The question we've been given as a topic was "The Evil-doers:How far will they go?"

I think I will take a view that accepts some of the positive aspects of our time's negativity. Meaning, I will start form this point: those who are in power, now, either believe that they are blessed to an afterlife robed in beautiful white censorship free from sexuality (which will begin just as soon as they take over the "Promised Land" and the Great Hero, the Commander and Chief tortures and slaughters all thieves and takes away all Believers to the Land of Milk and Honey), or they believe that they are something more than Bald Apes...of course there are variations to these, there's Karl, who sold...scratch that, who is Ni666on's bastard child, thus he's about doing his Dark Father's work, corrupting souls and seeking to bring about the End Times (thus, the pairing of W and him, they both want the same thing, just for different reasons...). Beyond this, a couple hundred years of believing the fairy-tale of infinite supply has forced this planet to the breaking point...well, a critical point would be more accurate.

The point is, the planet will survive us. We will be recycled.

So, will the world end? Not for a couple billion years. Will humanity self-destruct? This remains to be seen.

We have the ability to curtail our negative impacts on our environment. We have the ability to seek balance. Further, we have the ability to forecast where this spinning wheel is going to stop, and to adapt to that new reality.

I don't believe in a jackasses who quote from Revelation.... especially when they call it revelations. The writer of that piece of literature was writing in a specific historical period, to a specific audience, making specific historically bound allusions.

If you want to quote the Bible, how's about taking a look at what the philosopher Jesus said... take a good look at his moral theory (of course founded in Jewish theology, he was, after all, a Jew)... then take a look at what he said about the "End Times." Could he have been warning not to make any claims because he understood that the messianic era (in terms of the end of the world sort of crap) was bullshit? God was not coming down from the sky, sin was not something that a Zoroastrian creation was going to boil you in a lake of fire for, and further, to be more explicit, there was no such thing as the Devil.

We hold our future in our hands. Perhaps the time is coming for a true battle. Perhaps the time is coming to debate the semantics of a fist. Or, perhaps the time is coming for us to walk away.