Early morning. I’m in the pits of New York City. I’m going broke according to all the figures I have scrawled all over this legal-size notepad I stole from the corporate plantation on which I used to toil. I have an income, but, Jesus, it looks so paltry in terms of what’s being spent everyday in MY/YOUR/OUR name on those futile battlefields in Afghanistan and Iraq, where things have gotten progressively worse, zoning on the chaotic, as predicted before either one of these wars started, but especially the War on Iraq. These wars, too, are getting progressively more and more expensive. As I’m typing this epistle, our phony “president” is asking Congress for 100 billion more bucks to help him “complete the mission” in Iraq. You never hear much of anything about what the Afghanistan war is costing us. You never hear a running scoreboard of dead American soldiers in that war either—there’s no scoreboard over there maybe, dammit—I mean, we have an Iraqi scoreboard so why not an Afghani scoreboard?
In my ramblings, I see where the Iraqi Parliament has said it would from now on arrest any reporter writing or filming a story this Parliament decides is opposing the New Iraq point of view, that of accomplishing Bush’s mission for him when he bails out and leaves them to figure out their own quandries. “Hey, I see Freedom has just marched through here.” Holy Dead Cats in the Streets of old Baghdad.
Oh yeah, and how about reading that in Afghanistan men or women who teach young girls are being disemboweled and then drawn and quartered with alarming regularity. That sounds like the Taliban’s back in charge to me; that’s one of their radical Islamic principles: to teach a woman ideas Allah has reserved for men is an abomination for which disemboweling is the Holy-given punishment. I’m not quoting Allah or Mohammad now, so don’t read me wrong.
Also I’ve read where women in Afghanistan, especially young women, are now so afraid of males, police, the cleric, they are dousing themselves in gasoline and then setting themselves on fire, driven in fear of punishment for being educated and out of the burka (and some of these Afghan girls are just so naturally beautiful women—desert-rose beauty, ancient beauty, one reason, I’m sure, they are suppose to keep themselves hidden away—ah, yeah, that’s right, to keep them from being a temptation to a man who might then be forced to rape them with impunity) to that mad a protest, a screaming-kind of in-your-face protest, and some of them survive—there were thirteen girls in one Kabul hospital with same kind of third degree burns all over their bodies and the doctors there said these girls had doused themselves in gasoline or propane to commit suicide but had failed though now all of the girls say their burns resulted from cooking accidents. Wow, so Pickles Bush was lyin’ like the dog her husband is to the Afghan women when she smiled and honey-chiled them condescendingly about how free they all were then thanks to her phony “president” husband—remember how she talked squeaky Texas down during that Georgie Porgie quickie PR stop in Kabul on his way to giving nuclear secrets to India in exchange for mangoes. “We’re gonna enjoy eating Indian mangoes,” our “president” declared on that silly set-up PR junket—the least-ever traveled “president” when he stole office now the most-traveled-“president” ever as he continues illegally in office, and he’s been flying off somewhere, using the Holy Hell out of Air Force 1 and 2, staying in the air during his term in office since 9/11 when he left reading My Pet Goat and fled to that SAC stronghold in Omaha, Nebraska. Bush feels safe in airplanes.
I really am sick and tired of all this crap. I mean, the shit’s so deep it’s no fun to go out of my house anymore. I mean, I get out on Fifth Avenue and I see such junk goods being peddled gaudily, this once proud street now lined with tacky “foreign” stores packed with gawk-eyed numbskull tourists (our billionaire shorty mayor has declared Tourism NYC’s number-one industry so we’re supposed to be tolerant and friendly to all these hayseeds coming here like they’re at one of Disney’s phony-baloney playgrounds and for all I know, Disney is buying up NYC to turn it into a Mickey Mouse world. NYC is beginning to feel like a Mickey Mouse world. It’s so phony. It’s so cheap yet claims to be so precious. It’s gaudy like Donald Trump is gaudy. Like Martha Stewart’s gaudy-plus. Max tacks. So phony. A plasticized world run by plasticized dumbasses.
I am cursed with too much surety in my knowledge. I used to say I wished I were dumb, like just a damn workingman, and I could come home every night to my big thighed mamma’s loving arms, pop a beer, slap the kids on their asses and tell ‘em to go to their rooms, plop down in my easy chair, and watch tons of ferocious killing and twisted sex on my big, ultra-gaudy plasma-screen giant teevee—and the leading money-maker at my local quadraplex cinema is a cartoon about anthropomorphized penquins who are somehow urban hip, sounding like Whites impersonating blacks—and I assume most Disney voice-over people are white or they force the stars they have under contract to do them—like I’m sure Robin Williams, who I don’t find funny at all, is confident he can do an impersonation of a black man; in fact, I’ve heard him do it. It’s Amos and Andy white, if you know what I mean. Even I as a white man find it embarrassing, not funny. Same with Jerry Lewis impersonating a Chinese waiter. You know, with buck teeth and a mouthful of “Ah-sos.” Hey, that was one of Jerry’s biggest schticks; got him ranked as France’s favorite actor of all time.
Even black actors are impersonating black men through Hollywood’s Amos and Andy directions. Like old Bill Cosby’s old stand-up act with the slurred, Stepin’ Fetchit speech and the hung head on humped shoulders.
I’m sorry, but I’m tired of crabbing about insolvable matters.
And god-dammit, I’m writing poetry again:
A Rough Draft
in blindness pool
To hand a head of rain
to the thirsty Sun’s tongue
In return for the
blinding sands of desolation
that hide us in isolation
to inter us in blind history.
The sounds that form
the hands of time
that count in glassy grain
the fading away of earth.
Jesus, I’ve left myself bare. I’ve left myself full frontal, totally open to be stabbed, or worse, lanced through with a sword, my side speared, my hands nailed, my feet nailed, and that pretty Jewish girl weeping on the skull-shaped ground in which my cross is planted. A poet subject to crucifixion. Oh I can crucify that wolfish attempt at a manly art. And NO, I didn't plagiarize it off poetry.com.
Oh woe is me; I’m writing poetry again.
for The Daily Growler
New York City Police Department Says Black Men Are Lying; There Was a Fourth One of Them Who Got Out of the Car and Fled and He Had a Gun...Hah-Hah, So...
The NYPD is doing what they always do when they shoot first and ask questions later. These were five cops on undercover duty, 3 blacks, a Latino, and a white guy. Out of the 54 shots that were fired, the white cop shot 31 of them. He emptied one clip and reloaded and got off another barage of shots. These wild birds's wild shots hit a subway train--it's elevated in that area--a couple of shots went into apartment windows. Geraldo said it was nothing; the cops didn't use excess force to handle 3 "big" black dudes, one of whom, they thought had a gun. No gun was found in the 3 black dudes car. The driver was shot dead. The other two guys in the car were hit, one guy 11 times and he's in critical condition, and the other guy two times in the legs. Both men, I read and then heard their lawyers, say there was not a fourth guy with them. The cops broke into the home of a cousin of Sean Bell, the guy killed in the action. They found a bag of marijuana and a gun!! Aha. "Shocking new results in the cops's killing of the young finance on the eve of his wedding day...." all the Yahoo news reports are trumpeting. We predict it's all NYPD bullshit, which is lying, covering their own asses--just dumbass men all pumped up with the power to kill, so hell, they kill first and ask questions later--same way they teach you in the military. Same old same old.
for The Daily Growler