TextEngine

2006-01-15T19:56:00.000-08:00

It’s Suspicious I Tell You

War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I’ve got Donald Rumsfeld in my corn flakes
Dick Cheney in my toilet bowl
Condoleeza Rice poking through my garbage
And George Bush peeking into my medicine cabinet.

War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
I put the chain on the door
Bars on the windows
Water filter on the faucet
Flu shot in the shoulder
Sunscreen on the dermis
Firewall on the computer.

War on Terror? I’ve never been more afraid in my life.
It’s suspicious I tell you.
There’s pesticides in the food,
Mercury in the water
Diesel particulates in the air
Petroleum distillates in the street
Depleted uranium in the shells
I can’t eat, drink, breathe, walk or bomb civilians without getting cancer
It’s suspicious I tell you.

They call this a War on Terror.
I call it a War on Survival.
And I’m a survivor from way back.

This ain’t no war, it’s a police action,
a security situation.
They don’t need to tap my phone or read my email to know I’m a danger to the status quo
I’m queer,
Check off that little box
I’m male,
Check off another.
I was molested.
Check off boxes three, four and seven.
My friends are strippers, Satanists, anarchists, wobblies and drug fiends
Check check check check check.
Call the ACLU. I’m the perfect test case.

This ain’t no War on Terror
It’s a War of Terror, a constant siege
Where the population is kept in line by the non-existent threat
Of a nebulous, invisible enemy
That can strike at any time, anywhere
If the government says so.
It’s the perfect excuse to enslave us,
Invade our privacy
And keep us all on short leashes
By a president drunk on his own rhetoric.

We’re not in a war, we’re in a security situation
And the sooner people wake up to the fact
The sooner our civil liberties can be restored.

2005-11-18T22:39:00.000-08:00

Nothing natural is profane.

2005-09-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

Bush Pedaled While New Orleans Drowned

It's become clear that routine maintenance to the levees was neglected, wetlands filled in, and other preventative measures neglected to prevent the devastation of the flooding of New Orleans which has occurred as a result of hurricane Katrina.

It has become even more clear that as a result of Bush's disastrous War of aggression that there aren't enough National Guards to provide emergency aid or security to the people hit hardest by this natural disaster. The utter lack of security, food, water, sanitation and authority is resulting in gang warfare over precious resources. Armed thugs are taking over buildings, hoarding supplies, looting and shooting to protect their compounds Bush's bankruptcy of leadership has turned a large portion of the American South into a Third World Country of armed Warlords, gangs and open warfare.

Worst President Ever.

2004-06-16T22:29:00.000-07:00

Mama’s Mascara Runs, Honey

When we drink we miss those nights when hookers dabbed blood
off our crooked, grin-split faces
and offered to pave over the bruises with foundation
for a cigarette and how Finessa Cruella
pinched my ass and played
Liz Taylor, sneered “What a Dump.”
Palms up, hands making wide, victorious arcs.

2004-04-23T08:37:00.000-07:00

Until today the Department of Defense had banned photos of coffins returning from Iraq.

Perhaps Mrs. Bush will commission a "Coffin Opera" or some other suitable tribute to the heroism of the rich bully she's married to.

2004-04-22T11:17:00.000-07:00

"Our task must be to free ourselves...by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty." -Albert Einstein

2004-04-22T09:30:00.000-07:00

Diversify
Location
Plastic

Come together for enhanced supply-chain transparency. It's all about coalition building.

2004-04-19T13:50:00.000-07:00

Aching for a truth not predicated by the narrator's convenience.

That my Father was a liar became a matter of fact some years before his final death (his third attempt by some counts). That he asserted claims over the accomplishments of others remains a deep disappointment. In the long years of his illness he told a number of remarkable whoppers from assisting Professor Einstein at Princeton (while attending North Texas University -a feat of teleportation whose technique has since been lost) to experiencing firsthand the 1944 atomic devestation of Hiroshima from the deck of a battleship (Ville Potemkin, I'm sure) as a fourteen year-old Military Intelligence draftee. The worse his health, the thicker the lies flowed, refusing to allow even a glimpse of the man he had been, determined to perpetuate a mythology of smoldering bullshit. Had I the chance to interrogate him about those blood-soiled underclothes, would he have ever given me a straight answer? History is written by the survivors. And blame can easily be shifted to the absent, despised, frustratingly departed.

2004-04-18T20:34:00.000-07:00

I’m not illiterate, I’m merely ignorant. I am grateful to Learn if you have the patience for me.

May the God of the Fiery Pillar which led a Mighty People Home Bless You in All Ways to Honor Your Courage and Perseverence.

In the Tradition I was Taught, Every color of a Rose held significane. A red rose of was Love as they pretty much ram down our throats every year for a month and a half before every February 14th; a yellow rose the color of True and Lasting Friendship; and a White Rose represented an Absolute and Perfect Peace. Of course, the various Euro-Parties tended to throw white rose bouquets between arrows, but we’ll overlook that inconvenient fact and pretend we’ve never been wrong, Not once. Ever. Since Before Time Began and hack snuffle got this here allergy to the Colonies, you know. It seems my sinuses disagree with the smell of generations of blooded corpses.

In the West people follow the myth of the trajectory, yet they never picture their spirits letting go of the propellant shell. It is almost as if they believe their spirits have no choices that aren’t sold to them. Why would People continue to live your jig-saw-puzzle replicas of endless dollar signs and grids when they could understand a greater freedom than the endless mechanical labor you put them to so you can be printed more paper money with greasy green ink bleeding with the iron of your employees.

Urban Renewal. Urban Sewer if you ask Me. Mmhmm. And who gets to live in it.
Her Manicure made the stars dim in jealousy.

When I can appreciate you more fully, then I will deserve the pleasure of your company.

The nightmare’s of Reagan and Thatcher drove the passion of a lot of art. Can you not appreciate US? We are depictions of something far greater.

When it’s Time to Leave, Exit Gracefully. We’ll Respect You for it.

I cannot love you more than genuinely.

I think often of the Women born into my Mom’s generation. How cheated they must feel.

In Russia they would not even let me Hold a bottle of water until I had paid for it and had a paper receipt to prove it.
If that was the best Communism could manage, then we were all born to be slaves and I Cannot Accept That.

Heart Heart Heart Heart.

There Can Be A True Magic. We May —Someday, stand before a Council to defend our Honor.
How will You defend your Honor? .

I miss Andrei constantly.

White People have a habit of appreciating only what has been lost or ended. They must learn the beauty of this very moment and how much more we could give our children.

An Honest Attempt at Reparations Would Be a Start.

The White world is Glossy, Dazzingly Bright and Absolutely Without a Future.

Grace Bespoke the Harmony of All.

Searching for Mr. Wither’s Soul. Pokeing a snake up my vagina.

I find misplaced arrogance one of the greater flaws of White culture.

It is a fallacy to consider “White Culture” a monolith of conformism to a narrow set of assumptions and clear behavioral rules. There tend to be several competing sets of beliefs that overlap in some places, some that shake hands around, and some that never pass on the same side of the street. The ones too proud to recognize each other require a reassuring introduction in order to become familiar and respectful. Aggressive gestures tend to alienate embitter. Be wary.

The Heart of Withers.

I saw that look. A white rose symbolizes Peace between those estranged by circumstance or habit.

In reality, America is far more than a Pornographic Store and Hamburger Stand; But a Lynching Bee of Wealthy Men believe the American People will accept much less at a dangerously inflated price

One important lesson of the Black Civil Rights Movement was to make the power structure write their promises down, legally notorize then publicize agressively. Without the threat of punitive damages they're hard pressed to do the right thing unasked.

The problem with white people is they hold on to the wrong things. A spinning wheel without combs, a drinking problem, generations of regret. It’s time we changed the bath water. And forget the baby, Honey. She ain’t breathing because of the shit in the air. Thanks for nothing.

Hate what you did with the place. Leave your conscience at the sound of the beep.

2004-04-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

I am prone to Glorious Hyperbole. But I refuse the label "Size Queen".

2004-04-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

"While Excess in the Service of Beauty is rarely a crime
Beauty in the Service of Excess is Criminally Divine!"

--Remarked Finessa Cruella de Chic, swinging a bejewled Clutch purse with precision. "My God, it's Full of Stars!" cried Hawking, reeling from the blow.

"Watch where you're driving Wheels! Can't you see this is a No Parking Zone?!" Finnessa rubbed her bruised cheek then tugging her skirt back into place. Proving the Attraction of Glamour on Bodies of Lesser Density. "Honey, has anyone looked at this sunburn? Let's get you inside. You look a little cooked in that College Teacher drag. And if you're good, I'll teach the Little Perfesser hidden under all that wool a proven technique for winning the Lotto."

2004-04-06T10:58:00.000-07:00

How sentient are insects?
How sentient are those in sects?
How sentient are we in sex?
Are aphids self-aware?

Indicted for having style.

2004-02-26T17:06:00.000-08:00

Dream of the Great Library Which Persists Through Time

I saw the Great Library carried on enormous pallets
made of entire trees, roll across
the autumn fields of time on wood-spoked wheels
wrapped in barbed wire, a wagon train
of civilization carrying bare pine kiosks
of bound books, parchment, papyrus,
clay tablets, the recorded language and memory
of our species a series of book-laden tables,
erratic shelves arranged haphazard
then rearranged, bodies of knowledge coerced
into ever-changing patterns, shifting connections
as the determined killer hunted among them
for the brief light
of a popular voice to murder.

In the voice of Abraham, transcribed
in Hebrew on a broadsheet
a father’s betrayal, loving respect that remains
yet abandons the imperative of that command,
continues to evade, searches the maze
seeks among shelves for guidance, fingers
“Carelessly Told Tales” of Poe, “Burning of Jack Straw”
a thousand lost authors of Latin and Greek
Aramaic, Mythraic, Mayan, Poseiden
some millions of thought destroyed in time
arrival of hostile armies, apocalyptic religions
that sought to tear the roots of history
from soil of memory, all preserved here
a gypsy caravan of wisdom pursued by assassins.

Some voice coheres, catalyzed by pugnacious adversity
dogged determination, scattershot through lives
across spectrum of all time, all ages
codified by pre-humans, adolescents, children,
maturity and senility, assisted by minor lights
brown stars and red, failed novas, unlit gas giants
who failed to ignite and became shepherds instead
librarians of our one species, shelving millennia
to be referenced by the developing greats.

In the gravel outside warehouse cathedral of knowledge
among weeds a child kneels, hiding from grief
aware of murder, finds a spiral key. One father recognizes
such shape, screws into reservoir, shakes the blinding oil
into avenging ignorant’s eyes. Wild shots
from the assassin’s weapon, fly wild, near empty
his ammunition, yet he recovers and steadily stalks his prey.

Arrogant on top steel scaffolds far above
the library holdings he aims, targets the favored one,
shoots, calls in triumph. Down below, looking up
at momentum of tragedy, aging athlete among the stacks
points his javelin and throws, lightning strikes
the enemy is rendered to ash, a flattened,
blackened form on concrete below, library stacks roll
to incorporate this latest pattern, our voice persists
the catalog soldiers on.

2004-02-26T17:02:00.000-08:00

Homocore Punk, Former Roommate, Lost Boy

Hard-eyed with exhaustion under argon lights and cathode-rays
Impatient at the bus stop in a black trench coat
Limited protection from the intermittent rain

Eyes flicking up Castro to where my bus will eventually crest the hill
Then to the steps down to the underground metro station
As another crowded train disgorges more weary workers
I recognize a face, and ache at his accelerating decline.

Lurid hair-dye faded from a top knot lonely on his close-shaved blond head
Mouth that never opens to smile its missing teeth; not sure how lost
But knowing he’s unable to keep his trap shut
When bullied or threatened.

I nod in recognition, he starts at my ghost
Haunted by our briefly shared past
When he lived with his IWW labor organizer boyfriend in an Outer Mission flat
And offered me the empty room after my roommate’s overdose left me homeless.

Eric.

What were you doing at 3 am practicing your keyboards
When I had to be up at six for work?
My repeated, exhausted pleas to turn the volume down
As you and your friend fresh from rehab
Reminisced about getting high.

Oh Eric, I’ve watched your decline
Tried to honor your dignity when I saw you on the street
So proud when you first got clean, got off heroin and got a regular job serving coffee.
Then began to worry as neglected, clumped mascara circled around angry eyes
Assigning blame for getting moved to a store
In a less tony neighborhood
On schedule conflicts, and not your escalating inconsistency.

Tonight you hide your eyes from mine, tuck your head
I know you’re high
And I’m not ashamed. But I will worry
Because I don’t want you to die.

Homeless under another ugly night, you disappear until I’m seated on the bus
Then slip aboard, not quite invisible
Bob your head while locating me
Then hide your face seeking an open seat
Far from my gaze, as I stretch my legs in the back
And try to respect your avoidance.

Don’t be embarrassed, sweetie. I sympathize with relapse
It’s hard to shake a habit as ingrained as self-hate.

Weeks later, I still wish I’d intervened. Sought you out
While waiting at the bus stop. Reassured and encouraged you.

Eric, Do you know me?
Then know this:

Know that you are beautiful inside, and that the injuries done to you
Heal a little more every time you show genuine love to yourself.

2004-02-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

The following is a quote from a long-view historical perspective.

“Militarism is a race toward barbarism camouflaged by technology as modernity.”
--C.K. Liu, Hong Kong businessman

found at:
http://www.atimes.com/atimes/China/EG09Ad01.html

2004-02-26T16:57:00.000-08:00

This is excerpted from the Gnostic Gospel according to St. Thomas as found in the Dead Sea Scrolls:

Jesus said: I shall choose you, one out of a thousand, and two out of ten thousand, and they shall stand as a single one. His disciples said: Show us the place where thou art, for it is necessary for us to seek it. He said to them: Whoever has ears let him hear. Within a man of light there is light and he lights the whole world. When he does not shine, there is darkness. Jesus said: Love thy brother as thy soul, guard him as the apple of thine eye.

'Nuff said.

2004-02-06T13:26:00.000-08:00

"Boredom is always counterrevolutionary."
--Popular slogan during the Paris Revolution of '68.

2004-02-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

"Nothing will ever be attempted, if all possible objections must be first overcome."
--Samuel Johnson

2004-02-04T12:56:00.000-08:00

In another world, another life things look very different.

Like that time Lenny Bruce was knighted by the Queen of Baltimore, Divine.

2004-02-04T12:48:00.000-08:00

But be assured that my tears have been tears of love. There can be no deep disappointment
where there is not deep love.
-MLK, “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”

Would That The Past Be Erased

Would that the past be erased
Ignorant prejudice relieved by universal friendship
Irrational fear and obscene cariacatures dissolved by fellowship

To our universal horror, and vague, unknowable predecessors’ shame
The past stands unchanged, and ingrained lies
Resist and mutate into ever more virulent prejudice
Unless forcibly confronted, identified, owned and dismantled
Two generations from school desegregation, two generations of fitful integration
Much hostility persists, and much work remains.
How does one confront racial oppression, spiritual bondage and genocide on such enormous scale?
What more can one do, what constructive acts perform, to replace passive, well-meaning
Impotent regret?

An incomprehensible number of men and women, kidnapped children wrists locked together with iron, Ankles hobbled by shackles, choked with collars, trapped beneath decks a mere eighteen inches high, unable to turn or sit up, chained to rotting corpses.

How does one calculate 500 years of Middle Passage journeys, 500 years of desperate coupling and unwelcomed rape; 500 years of love, of oppressed dignity and scattered descendents
500 years of sorrows ingrained into DNA and activated with every avoided glance, every dirty stare,
Closed restroom, restricted lunch counter or bus seat, lynching picnics and confiscated farm or business?

Such weight of pain, of memory, of police-enforced shuffle towards full rights and spiritual liberation.

Voiced with globe-encompassing compassion, dignity and righteous eloquence by Dr. King.
Voiced with the legitimate rage at grievous injustice in the words and life of Malcom X.
Voiced with clarity and rhythm throughout the Harlem Renaissance, Langston Huges
And Miss Zora Neale Hurston presiding.
Voiced with scathing precision by James Baldwin and Amiri Baraka.
Voiced with through the caged bird’s struggle to sing her survival by Maya Angelou.
Voiced with richly layered textures of prose which rediscovers and evokes suppressed wisdom
Recognized with a Noble Prize for Tony Morrison.
Voiced with sharp commands by hungry mothers judged with disapproval.
Voiced with anxious steps past angry bigots.
Voiced with mugshots and long sentences for petty crimes.
Voiced with newspaper headlines and exaggeration on the nightly news.
Voiced with defiant style and flash, glorious with insight and attitude, uncompromising
And unmistakably expressed.

Such weight of pain, of memory, of police-enforced shuffle towards full rights and spiritual liberation

So many people forced into slavery
That no compensation can ever satisfy, as nothing of human value compares to the loss.
But that does not excuse the meager and insincere Reconstruction propaganda
Of undelivered 40 acres farmland and mule
Nor does it excuse a failure to educate and empower now.

2004-02-04T00:00:00.000-08:00

They rape children, that’s how they make prostitutes.

Boy on the street, streaky black hair smoking outside
the bar my queer-male-sister dared me inside,
then noted my glace as I passed by
I ordered our cocktails, anxious and needing a sedative
Girl just as cool as anything standing there like a bitter pillar
Carved from the harshest salts. He picked a table in the center
up against the wall opposite the bar that stretched nearly the length
of that long overlit room. Lavinia decided to have a smoke on the veranda
of Polk Street barely flicking a glance with her cigarette ash
at the man push his shopping basket up the street
and park blocking a doorway, shelter enough for two
when it didn’t rain. Alone at the tiny round bar-height table
I watched the rough trade leaning over the pool table
And posing with their cues. A sturdy blond who could take care of himself
Detached himself from the game to hi. “Just watching the game.”
I smiled at him. He shrugged your loss and turned around
Michelle sauntered into the room, his whole torso tilted back
Thrusting his shoulders forward by pivoting at the waist.
His torso made a shadowy v that cut into his tight black t
Faded charcoal black same as his slacks. He was wearing his “Little Girl Shoes”
Emphasizing “girl” by flattening it under Queen’s English
And ending on a disgusted note, imitating his great love.
He took his seat with a dirty grin and noted my eyes
Return to the doorway to watch the gutter goth boy / morbid waif from outside
Shuffle back into the bar. My eyes noticed too long. He made a beeline to our table
and mumbling, tried to ingratiate. I gulped my Stoli-tonic. I asked his story.
It’s the same story.
Every story the same story no matter what’s said, by whom, any gender it doesn’t matter
Because why never changes. The pitch is everything
Especially when unrehearsed. Not a thief. Honest. Always make good on deals
Never freaked out. Not lying.
I told him we were tourists, not voyeurs. That I wasn’t there to use anyone
“I’m not about using anybody either.” He corrected me with wary, resentful eyes.
But we were just checking out the bar.
“At least you weren’t a-huggin’ and kissin’ on me before you said so.”

2004-02-03T23:59:00.000-08:00

They’ll never clone ya.
You’re always first in line.
When you’re a boy!

Boys Keep Swinging!
Boys Always Work It Out!

--David (née Jones) Bowie

« I really want a man. A man. I, David Bowie, want a man.
I want a man.
I- a man. I – man.

Iman! »

It all makes perfect sense!

2004-02-03T23:46:00.000-08:00

Everything is Spin. Everything is lies. Everything is Marketing.

Who would share my amazement?