And then, by god, there on television a notable Arizona fascist flips a special coin. Afterward the buy-now robot beats up the buy-now Dodge.
Young Carl Byker once remarked at the television in a Grand Rapids golf course bar "I can't believe I live on this planet!"
Ashton Ave 1/4/2007
First night waning moon of the New Year rises from hood of
dark cumulous hovering over East Bay Hills . . .
last remnant of today’s early rain still hanging there against the nights demanding wind.
First night in what seems like months without narcotic football
and all the accompanyingly vile America it reflects.
How Long O Lord How Long
must I be forced to press the mute button to avoid
the awful sound of an angry robot beating up a horned Dodge.
Or watch lymphmaniac Bill Walsh lipsynch to a Coors Light commercial?
Guy Clark would never do something like that. I devoutly hope.
Last year’s new Dylan (Modern Times) on the turntable in
heavy vinyl . . . and Moriah . . . the cat not the wind . . .
climbing all over the turntable as threat to scratch hell out of the best record I have.
It would be a great record if Bob Dylan had never existed.
Or at least a revenant suggesting that
if Bob Dylan didn’t exist we would have to invent him.
CODA “The cat thrown”
Moriah thrown from the appurtenance of stereo goes hard at work on a golf pencil instead.
Watching Canadian Football in SF, because I like it. These days, I like it better than Amerikan.
Maybe because I like Canada better than Amerika.
Realize THAT THOUGHTCRIME now qualifies me as enemy combatant eligible for AMERIKAN GITMO.
Think about Riverbend, silent several days until 10/18/06 . . . not heard from since . . . maybe never coming back after last brutally articulate post.
Think about buried reports of Iraqui girls going for sex slavery to get out’a there . . . (Why is this story not surprising let alone new?)
Canadian Football in SF on premium cable for an extra $5-10 USD, $5.25-10.50 CDN.
(Anyone notice how $CDN has kept getting closer to $USD since you know when?)
And commercial sponsors are US ARMY (you will also get a free US ARMY hat)
& real estate deals of the sort Fred Elgersma railed against in his fabled recordings
of the 80s. And! Canadian Football Fathead thug commentators no
better than Amerikan Fatheads, thus, etc . . . And the game is indoors, yea, right,
& halftime show a salute to Canadian Forces in Afghanistan where the poppies are blooming.
The Forces & their Great Sacrifices mentioned Sentimentally whenever the Fatheads shut the
**** up. Marching, they look older than me. Then a commercial for
jerky and sausage making of the essential you-kill-it we-cure-it sort no Canadian
would believe for as many as 28 seconds
and then a a bit of preternaturally repellent advice from Dick Vitale for
people who want to get NCAA scholarships in 2006 or 2007. And I am reminded
that wherever this football is being played, indoors or out, I am watching Amerikan TV.
Sometimes I like to pretend I am as protected from Amerika here in San Francisco as I would be in Vancouver.
(And my Yankee Dollars won’t soon be worth any more good goddamn Euros than $CDS are anyway)
So . . . what’s the point of trying to move back there where I had an unfortunate emotional experience while I was planting trees, anyway?
In Canadian Football the penalty flag is bright red and a single point is called a rouge.
The Wildebeeste’s widow sends the fly rod I know well.
I do not, at first, even understand the note covering it.
A better reader explains . . . The Beeste was telling me about Jesus and how we
would meet again in Glory. Not my memory
of the conversation but who in heaven knows how
those things actually go. I heard him tell me a story
I had already heard about a preacher who helped him prepare
for his inevitable death. The Beeste called it reprehensible.
I had to agree. His widow heard a different story
and bless whatever God or Jesus told her what to do, because
I haven’t fished in some long time & who knows, I might.
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 01, 2006
The Wildebeeste on the Conviction of Saddam
My fatuous brother told me he would never be convicted because he would never come to trial, and if he did
they’d kill him before it ended. Instead they killed his lawyers.
Saddam’s that is. My brother doesn’t have a lawyer just a weird bunch
of lawyer friends who smoke dope when they should be keeping their fee accounts.
But no, they took my fatuous brother’s $50 bet instead, and that will get them to the next one eighth of an ounce
. . . if he ever pays. Good for all of them. They had it coming.
My Dentist for Jabes
Wasn’t it Pynchon, in V, who floated the notion that dentistry was the mid-century answer
to Psychiatry? (See the chapter in which Rachel Owlglass Gets a Nose Job. Or is it the one
where Stencil simply gets Dentistry?) Go read V again, lazy citizen! Do your own research!
And my dentist was talking and one of the great things about my dentist is he
steps back and lets me talk too, whatever he or I have in my mouth.
My dentist was, not that long ago, a San Francisco Fireman
of Assyrian decent. He is a Christian (of an Assyrian sort).
The other firemen called him a Sand Nigger. (Check out the SFFD’s record
on tolerance, sometime.) And now he’s telling me all about how great the Bill
Moyers series on the right wing has been, & how it reminds him of what it means
to be an American. I agree, although I’ve seen none of it, explain
I only watch baseball & the occasional movie on TV if there aren’t any commercials, that
I don’t even listen to the emerging liberal radio because I get better
information from the Texas & Canadian songwriters they play on KPIG. People
talking about the decisions that will kill us all depress me enormously. I’d rather
hear it in a song. Preferably with a baseball game
on TV in the background, and those nattering “commentators” fully muted.
(w/ apologies both to Ed, and John Prine)
My TV tells me I can grow hair by smearing this shit that they
sell as foam on my dome & hair just like I
used to have will grow. My email tells me it can
cure my penile woes, make me hard again. I wonder
what they got for my belly. Fuck all, turns out,
eating & drinking less not being a a viable option. So, Ed, apologies
reiterated, what can we smear on our global dome to make
life itself grow back, even as global hair, something
anything on which a revenant might live? Your silence, sir, is
illuminating, you got all you had to say said & right now it
doesn’t seem to have done a damn bit of good. Nice try,
though, fella, nobody’s best shot seems good enough in these
evil days. But that is not to say we should not keep fighting them,
it, whatever that demonic energy is that seems determined to kill us all.
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 21, 2006
One Last One Night Stand
with Bernie Van’t Hul & David Schaafsma
Some woodsmen curse as virgin forests fall while others see a dawning of fine light that blinds the moles and bleaches owls' bones and sears the saplings, fries the infant buds. Then cones pop open so their seed will spill and soil receives this seed, again begin.
Hell's tintinnabulating bells begin to ring and monkeys in the trees fall hard on hand-picked coconuts and spill their milk on heads of thirsty sylphs as light as pingpong balls. And there stand the buds guilty, perplexed, waiting for Mr. Bones.
They feel it now, and deep in trembling bones the ever lurking dread will soon begin when no bland opiates like labatts or buds will cushion twice born guzzlers as they fall into the stupor that no ordinary light beer can effect. However, a thought spill
is another matter entirely. You spill the beans for leering priests who make no bones about the mortal sin that comes to light when omnivores crepuscular begin to stalk as adam did before the fall the fair and nubile eve whose lovely buds
were not unlike the virgin fern's whose buds would be enough, airbrushed, for me to spill seed, coffee, beer, whatever, and then fall ass over teakettle jumpin' them bones until keenings of the valkyrie begin to dissipate the gloom of dying light
that undulates through virgin forests. Light another match and brew rich coffee buds. Redeploy its fire and then begin to smoke, like many another spill liquescent lava over hallowed bones concealed by sin-stained acorns in the fall.
Turn out the light, prepare at last to spill spent seed from anxious buds. Mr. Bones saw life begin. He watches empires fall.