The Poet of Neo-Con Hell

thegrowlingwolf's Inferno
I mean, truth up? We are doomed. We've been chosen by Mother and Father Earth to go through an ordeal, the ordeal of a demonic plan to conquer the world using We the People of the United Snakes of Amurica's money, protective armies, snake-in-the-grass intelligence network, good name (whatever that was), intended principles (white, yes, but principles just the same), intended dreams....

Dreams. A question on the teevee show So You Want to Be a Millionaire? asked, "Which of these 4 men wrote An Interpretation of Dreams? The list included Sigmund Freud and Freudian that I am I immediately started yelling, "Freud, you idiot, not Stephen King, he's a stupid dumbass writer of bad children's books; not Martin Luther King, you idiot, I Have a Dream, but this fool shook his head, said, "I'm not sure, I'm gonna call a friend." He called the friend. Time ran down. The friend said he thought it was Dr. Phil. The contestant said, "Dr. Phil." "Is that your final answer?" asked show host Meredith Viagra (who has made a pretty replacement for cheerleader-turned-journalist, Katie Couric; besides, I think Viagra is sexier in a "real girl" sense that a lot of celebrities lack they're so phony--it's hard for Viagra to be phony, though she certainly can be like any good little actress-smactress). "That's my final answer," said the contestant.

This guys outright wrong answer on a question a mere idiot of my generation could have answered right off the bat. I mean, Dr. Phil? That's an insult to creation. That's an insult to logical thinking. That's an insult to the American public education system--that "all children that aren't white and rich left behind" program put into existence by our Great Neo-Con Chancellor Leader, Decider, Commander and Chief, and never honestly elected "president."

I'm sorry. These days are the freest and happiest days of my individual life (Praise Aynn Rand) but doomed days in terms of my advancing future. I cannot think in the future. It doesn't impress me like it does those of us humans who love the future and find it so fascinating they make the earnings off of predicting it, even though probability shows us there is no such thing as accurate predicting--APPROXIMATE ESTIMATIONS, yes, we called 'em "guesstimations" in the Sociology of my generation--some of us followers of Pitrim Sorokin's Theory of Altruism--FOOLS!

I told you I've been writing poetry lately. Regressing. But as a poet now, with the mantel of Dante being offered me, I don't know. Dante had Virgil for his guide on his trip to Hell and Back [Audie Murphy, the most decorated soldier in WWII, entitled his autobiography, To Hell and Back, and then played himself in the movie of the same name. Audie Murphy died in a plane crash in Texas right after consulting with my father over the redesign of his den in his Corsicana, Texas, home--I just thought I'd poetically drop that bit of snob-shit in on you! I just want to be known, which is all any of us want, isn't it?].

About five years ago I started work on a novel I called Marilyn Monroe in Hell. The novel concerned a Hollywood PR writer getting an offer he couldn't resist, a chance to go to Hell and interview whatever celebrity he wanted that was logged in in the Dominion Directory of Hell the Nation and City, the capital of Hell being Hell City (or the City of Hell), and there in the city part of that directory he saw the name "Marilyn Monroe, actress." Viola! this writer says, "I want to interview Marilyn Monroe." The deal is made with the ambassador from Hell, who looks a lot like the image of Satan from the Christian allegories, in Washington, District of Corruption, and goes to Hell, meets Miss Monroe, and the novel begins'a burnin'--a damn hot novel, but it was lost when the word processor [remember those?] fell off my loft bed [same as a Toshiba laptop recently did] and smashed to a million smithereens leaving my novel to go into a grave on the floppy disks that could only be read on that particular model word processor, long obsolete. So, the novel went to Hell along with its main character and Marilyn Monroe, who I assume went to Heaven, right?

This trip to Hell I'm going to take is happening as I type this--I mean the Hell into which I'm descending is boiling up around me, its hydra-head in Washington, District of Corruption, [the modern Hell City perhaps], it's Demon Leader there in that hell, that current hell, that great ball of a hell where the richest human beings in the world gather in the bull's-eye center of otherwise total going-downhill poor folks, the majority of We the People of Washington, District of Columbia, the real city, Chocolate City, that lays outside the Beltway; that resides in the bottoms around the HILL, the Holy Hill, that Mount Olympus our new Chancellor, Adolph...er-ah, I'm sorry, I mean, George W. Bush has mounted and looks as though he's ensconced up there for good. He's a world savior now. He is the modern image of a satanic being--the reverse of what's in the future that is of light--he wants lights out in this earth. He is poking out our eyes because he has raped his true Mother, Mother Earth.

Did anyone ever ask why is there oil in pools all around the earth? What evolutionary reason is there for those pools of oil? Are they there to oil the hinges of the earth? To keep the great plates of the earth greased so that when they rub together they don't erupt but kind'a make love to each other? Are we doing something disastrous by draining Mother and Father Earth of their oil? We are certainly transferring oil's residues into the atmosphere, sending oil to the heavens, opening up a hole in the sky so the glory of our true God, the Sun, can burn through and send us all to a final truly burning Hell. I suppose that's what this is all about, isn't it? Or am I getting too philosophical?

unburned phoenix
cries downwind
a solo moan of used to be
when things were left alone
and Man was but a friend

Oh, God, I'm writing poetry again. I am descending into the pits of Hell. Plume and legal notepad in hand, or, hey, Virgil, wait a minute, that's John Berryman...John Berryman's gonna be my guide through Hades--so hey, Mr. Berryman, tally me stanzas, can I bring my laptop with me on my trip to Hell? Did John Berryman live long enough to know what a laptop was? From beneath the icy waters of the Mississippi River comes the thundering poetic rumblings of John "the Lone Poet" Berryman as he welcomes me in through the entrance to Hell, the icy waters of the Father of Waters.

Is there water in Hell. Hell yes. Probably.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler