Dog Poet in Orbit…
While all of us are focused on everything else and that includes the unknown nightmare of the Gulf of Mexico, something else is also happening. Something like this. The world is transforming my friends. It is happening in front of your eyes and around the corner while you shop and surf and dream and fuck. I know it has always been the appearance of something taking place, through the television, the windshield and in your mind that flashes by the peripheral of the seeing, discounting, laughing, sneering, without compassion, wincing, disinterested, occasionally with curious eyes and sometimes helpful and compassionate. It is also soon to be right there where ‘you’ are; discounting you, laughing at you, sneering at you, without compassion for you, not wincing, disinterested in and occasionally curious about you and sometimes helpful and compassionate
I don’t know what the reader knows about The Partition/Pakistan and Gandhi; not to mention the coincidental timing of two different countries in two separate places; one of them receiving most of the misery of late and the other one causing it; one of them the size of a Liberty dollar and the other the size of a centime… the Hindu Kush… Karachi has 20 million people nearly (digressing) and all that grasped and expanded and crunched territory that looks like god reached down and grabbed a part of the world like a brown paper sack and crushed it for a moment and then let go. It could have been Mother Nature grabbing the ground like it was a bed sheet as she thrust her hips back up into her heavenly lover and then she fell back and became an ocean. I don’t know. Don’t ask and well, you can’t tell anyway can you? What was that thing about the groove under your nose? Isn’t that where the angel pressed its finger and said, “Shush”? …silence.
What kind of a number is twenty million? That is the amount of people affected there.
And we’ve seen those numbers in those places before, gulag speaking. Never forget that Stalin was from Georgia either. Don’t forget, if you ever knew, about the tunnels through the Caspian Mountains. Don’t forget about all those strange fires in Russia. Don’t forget about all those interesting oil spills in Michigan, China and what you already know or… don’t know. There’s a game called Risk and a game called Go. one is more like Monopoly and the other more like chess, I guess (rhyming feature turned on).
Somebody said a hard rain was going to fall and I’m writing a song about The Gulf of Mexico, hope to have it up here soon but this ain’t about the rain; the rain is the responding to a karma kind of thing where the people who did some shit before are now reincarnated into the next chapter of it and this isn’t about my songs because those are incidental to anything. The people I am going to talk about don’t care about Karma, even if it is the truth, they would help anyway. This is about who and why and do you really know. I’m following along with some of yesterday’s Smoking Mirrors. The time is here now and so all of us have to take off our masks. Some of us do it willingly because we’re like Strider before he was Aragorn. We’re the real marines who have been protecting your borders. Other masks are going to be ripped off. Those are the ones employing the people who turn into red faced, martini drinking, heart attack victims and who work at destroying borders and making laws and rules that turn honesty and truth into a crime.
Yes, I’m writing a lot better. I’m allowed to now. It was a little difficult keeping all those horses in the stable, snorting, champing, not at, but for the bit, mucus frothing at the brisk hit of Spring dawning, like Madre De Christos, Bolivian flake cocaine snorted off of the ass of the most outrageous and intelligent, flexible and articulate jailbait of all time ( made illegal by those who keep it for their private stock, getting the unwilling end of it), wild, inventive, both innocent and knowing, telling you, “It don’t matter how old I am. I am definitely old enough for that and I want it and if you don’t, I’ll say you tried… with my innocent face, or… if you do, I’ll let you do it again and again and I won’t tell anyone, except for my friends and they are all prettier than me. It’s an almost lubricious, deliquescing, palm reading, hot love done in Braille in the room next to the parents that are probably listening cause they want some of that too. Yeah… it’s that good and yeah, the parents offer you money to come back and do it again but you have more important shit to take care of. That’s how the truth is for me and that’s how the truth is for some of the people I mentioned lately, so everyone should remember that the truth is the best fuck in town and yes, she swallows but she shows it to you first. It’s perfectly alright for you to feel good when she says that’s the best thing I ever tasted because, hey, it’s the truth.
All your enemies are watching it happen too and they can’t do a thing about it. Why? Because they work for the lies. The lies have all the paper; paper money, paper documents, paper dicks. What happens when you stick your paper dick into the hot mouth of truth? Our side, with the obvious moles and occasional warts and unfortunate public farts may live a life of dishonor and discredit in the fuckless wastelands of perfume toxic and unmoving pussies, being serviced by short-sheeted dicks who think great love is made by hammering the fuck out of something that already opened its legs for you and surrendered itself for it but I suspect you and they get what you both deserve. One lacking motivation and the other lacking finesse.
I know I could be set down in any street in Karachi, or even a Taliban location in the Kush and be safer than walking around Piedmont Park in Atlanta after midnight or off street wise from Sunset in Hollywood, even though I am safe in either place. People are people except when they are not. The right people know each other wherever they are. Even tigers don’t fuck with people who aren’t afraid of them. Who are these people who are not afraid of tigers? They got Lady Truth on their arm. They don’t need armies and police. They don’t need weapons. They don’t need anything. Your Bible is full of these things, even if it is all bent out of shape, you can’t conceal the truth when it’s there. She doesn’t take her clothes off for everybody. You got to win her ass and that having been done, it’s not surprising that some people will turn down everything that most people sold their asses and souls for and got the shit end of the stick in return for it. Those people get beautiful robots that can’t move; food that tastes like what it turns into and intoxicants that kill their capacity to enjoy and they pay big for the opportunity to look like they are enjoying themselves and it is exclusive.
It’s real exclusive for tens of millions of people who have physical fortunes and no physical grace. Only the few, the real marines, the truly unstruting proud have it all. They give their life away every moment and count it well spent. The rest, parade around in uniforms with medals and toast their victories that were won at the expense of another man’s life. It’s their useless, predatory life and they paid for and never even understood how much it cost or how little they got out of it.
Think about all of this the next time you pick up a magazine or a newspaper, watch TV or go to a concert. Think about this the next time you read or listen and think about what you are seeing and hearing and ask yourself if the empty vacuous crap, with the accelerated yeast infection rise, is the Wonder Bread of your tomorrow and the source of the strength in your bones. Ask yourself why you can’t dance to music with no meaning or make love to someone not even designed for or capable of the expression, while lean men with nothing can fuck better than the most expensive hooker you can buy, underneath the most ordinary man and turn him into Casanova and make him follow them around and forget he ever saw any of the women that you made everyone think was more desirable and beautiful. Lest anyone think I am demeaning women or making them an object, it’s possible, if you consider the truth an insult or don’t recognize god as your mother as well as your father, well… you probably then don’t even understand karma because that all starts with getting born by a woman and which of those women, is up to you (nudge nudge… let’s see, sexual history, capacity for love, yadda yadda). Take a look around my friends at your fine and fashionable urban environments and tell me what you see. Yeah, well… the truth is not politically correct and it’s not fair either, not the way we come to define fair, or justice or laws.
Before you consider going to bed with the truth you had better be prepared to bend over for it first because that’s how the truth will first appear, as your father coming up on your rear (rhyming feature turned off). It hurts the first time too but then it feels incredible and you got to watch that. The idea is to have it happen to you and not to have it keep happening to you because it feels good to know that you’re so wrong, over and over; “ turn me over and beg me to make you the master of my ass” but then you never can give it up. It’s far more pleasurable to deliver it to someone else, even though you are the one who gets the pain this time. That’s love baby and that’s the truth but you don’t have to bear the child either. Think about it. It’s the lies that bear the truth. It’s the lie you told her that made her pregnant with the possibility that you didn’t lie. Did you? Your children will be the evidence down to however so many generations and so forth and so on. I’m telling you more here than you will read in ten thousand volumes that will never tell you this in personal terms.
It’s all sex baby, it’s just not exactly Freud, unless, of course (heh heh, yeah, right but at least you get the funny hats). Your outrageous cosmetics are necessary and proof that lies grow more ugly each moment they are alive and so do you ( I thought I turned that feature off?) if you are presenting yourself as something other than you are. That’s why you need the night and darkness so you can look as good as you ever will and send in a proxy to play your part while you watch.
Think about this the next time you visit a real truth site. You know who they are. They tell you about what’s really happening in Pakistan and The Gulf and it doesn’t matter if one of them thinks that HAARP is a radar machine and one thinks it’s a weapon. It doesn’t matter if one gets pissed about no plane at the Pentagon and somebody else thinks it’s a missile. It doesn’t matter if they don’t like each other most of the time and compete like siblings do. It’s that children of Abraham thing. You know what I mean or you don’t.
Think about these guys when you buy a magazine, turn on a TV, buy a newspaper, some pointless piece of shit that was easier to get than the genuine article, given to you free on a real man’s sweat and blood for and on your behalf. The next time one of these people tells you they need donations …and you can imagine how that makes them feel to do it, as if they aren’t trusting enough or doing without enough to keep it real, short of the lights going out; you ask yourself whether maybe that isn’t a reasonable operating cost for you since you would be in the dark without them and I’m not talking about me, not even subliminally. As you can see, I already got a birthday present from the divine, even if it is a few days early and you’re reading the evidence of it. The truth doesn’t mean much if it can’t be communicated and my daddy gave me a bunch of new bells and whistles to put some more shimmery, even more see-through sexy dresses, on the most beautiful woman in the world… Lady Truth… because, like I say, when the truth takes off her clothes, the world disappears and there’s nothing like seeing your reflection in her eyes.
So, you make it a point now to tell everyone you see to come away from those uptown girls on Commercial Street, cause they too expensive but you know a girl who gives it away for free and she’s the best fuck in town. Now do you know the difference between a whore and a prostitute? Now do you know the difference between virtue and vice? You’ve been looking up the wrong skirts and the truth doesn’t have to shave except a little when she wants to look nice.
God have mercy on Pakistan.
End Transmission and ahrooooooooooo!!!