Smoking Bad Columbian Shake on Camelback Mountain

Smoking Mirrors – March 21, 2012

Dog Poet Transmitting…….
May your noses always be cold and wet.
Well, there is virtuosity and mediocrity and you don’t need an example for the latter because there are too many of them to choose from. You got your celebrities, who are all concerned about Sudan; not taking anything away from how they feel, I feel the same way but everything that goes on in The Sudan is connected to what happens and is happening in Syria, with an eye toward Iran and it is all happening courtesy of the bankers they work for and never seem to get around to mention. You might see how this could disturb and puzzle me; once again, not taking anything away from these people but there is the slight tang of hypocrisy burning in the morning. I wish I didn’t see these things but I would also hate myself if I did not and the only way I could not see these things and make the connections is if I were bone dead stupid, or compromised. Some of us have equaling talent but we don’t get the wider stage because we won’t bend over for it on that bridge we think we need to cross, when we get to it.
From candy ass to trailer trash, we got a burning landfill outside of Manilla and ringing around Guatemala City, like leaving a stench in the nostrils; these being always cold and wet. We got cartoons and buffoons, lumbering around like spastic mastodons, going by the name of Gringrich, Romney and Sanitorium, through the eye of a needle, to Tippee Canoe and Tyler too; smoking bad Colombian shake on Camelback Mountain. We got shingles from the mingles, with these cretins of the hour. We don’t like what they got and we are going back for seconds. They also serve, who are only seconds, or second the motion. ♫I second that emotion♫ …while not going through the motions.
There is then and there is now and there is ‘where the fuck are we anyhow’? Good question. It adds a new dimension to the ‘in your face’, well, I can’t see it’ flu that seems to be going around. You probably catch it from that recycled airplane cabin air; debonaire, cavalier carabinieri, fire when ready. Fire in the hole is part of the problem and fireman with a swollen purple helmet, following after and rearing up like a cobra in the incandescent moist darkness, is the other but that’s how we got here anyway, so stop complaining, unless… unless you don’t like it here. I don’t. Because it always wants me to play fireman too but homie don’t smoke that shit, unless it’s liquid smoke and that’s no less of a problem in the long run. Anyway, I’m just passing through. I’m clear in my mind about that now; no more air kissing promises of back to the past reruns of something I’ve already had enough of, present company excepted, but you lose everyone and everything anyway, so you might as well go eager and willing as reluctantly. At least someone will take care of the dog. I don’t know that they take dogs in Shambala. I can’t see that there’s an alternative, outside of this open air Walla Walla prison camp, of let’s root our noses deeper into the murk, or try to make it better; after all, it’s still the world and everything that’s in it.
I suppose I’ll have to do my Bertrand Russell farewell tour, since I don’t look like Kurt Russell used to, not even back then. Those of us that can’t get our hair to stay in place, wind up with no hair at all and are committed to the hair of the dog that bit us; thank you very much (grin).
Now where was I? I must have been somewhere, because now I’m here, if you catch my drift on a ‘sea of forgotten teardrops’. People who tell me I need to quit Smoking that shit, probably don’t realize that I only smoke American Spirit or Crossroads. Once again, we are the people that might have been and we should have gotten in touch with us then but that, like all the rest of the distorted, rewired and rewritten history is a thing of the past. These are all things of the past, or so says Marcel Proust, dipping his madeleine in his tea and it don’t ‘mean shit to a tree’.
I have learned a few things on my way through. Nothing is worth having, unless it is a part of you. It’s all going to transform or go away. If you can get that into your head, you won’t be tripping over all the furniture in your mind, when the lights go out on what you think you can see here. It’s better to walk out of here conscious. The dream police know that their greatest weapon for keeping you behind the wire, is all the things you dream about. So keep on dreaming, ♫row, row, row your boat, merrily down the stream♫
I’m wondering if the Mayan calendar has it’s dates fugazy, like the way 1984 shows up decades late. I wonder about a lot of things, when I’m wishing in one hand and shitting in the other. Makes me feel like behaving like one of those monkeys at the zoo, with all those people watching me. I have behaved in such a fashion, even recently, but I think the thrill is now gone. It wasn’t nothing but boredom and bewilderment, copping a feel in the dark, behind the amusement park. Being as life is a drive in theater, I can drive out. Having the good sense to never listen to a thing Rachel Maddow has to say, or any of the rest of them, makes it easy.
I suspect I’ll be traveling with Gurdjieff and meeting remarkable men soon. I never was a fan of Gurdjieff, who was way to left brain for me but I don’t mind using him as an analogy. There are people I didn’t get to meet but there’s still time remaining and probably even people who wished, or will wish, that they had met me but, then again, there is no road one can walk, where one cannot follow, because there is no road you can walk, where someone has not gone before, even if you do work on the Starship Enterprise.
This is not some kind of swan song, since I am more resemblant of a stork. This is just looking at what cannot be seen, or articulated directly and therefore alluded to, in a sort of stream of consciousness, half arsed, poetic fashion. I know that if you drink deeply and dream the same; after a fashion, you are more likely to get out of here. This is meant in a Samuel Taylor Coleridge kind of a way. The guy used to stay in his basement apartment for months at a time and have the grocer and whoever come by and slip him his parcels, through the door. That sounds like someone who is serious about whatever he is getting up to, which you really ought to be, especially if you are going down :”caverns measureless to man, down to a sunless sea”.
Some things I fixed and the rest of them I broke but if they were any good they wouldn’t have broken in the first place and in some cases, they were better off broken, like hearts, which don’t work properly until you do. It’s kind of like expecting to have some kind of ineffable presence, when your door is still on the hinges. Yes, you learn a thing or two, while you are here, or you don’t learn very much because you can’t afford to, since it gets in the way of having all the treacly, tchotchke kitsch that the joys of Yiddish will bring you. I’m not knocking Yiddish, it is to German what Hebrew is to Chaldean and both of them cheaper than stolen, which I suppose both of them were.
The world belongs to the people who most want to own it and for whom property means the right to put up no trespassing signs. One of the singular joys of living in Woodstock NY for so long was that there were so many trees by the side of any road, paved or not paved, that had them on them. I used to remove them as part of my job description. Then they took to putting up metal ones nailed into the tree, so I took to carrying a crowbar. Finally I just moved on. It reminded me of one of the scenes in The Monkey Wrench Gang (great book, a must read if you haven’t), where they were chainsawing down billboards, so the company went and put them up on steel girders.. that would play hell with a chain saw; but, if you were a John Cage fan (I definitely am not), it would probably be music to your ears.
I am glad to see the back end of this post, rearing up in front of me like the hindquarters of W.C. Fields. My bags are packed metaphorically speaking and I am thinking about Mongolian wastes and Himalayan footsteps, traversing between my lips, or fingertips to god’s ear.
It’s been a fine business doing you and being done, or almost done; probably only the denouement anyway. This is not cryptic. It is just descriptive. It’s not a fare thee well, it’s more of a how do you do and the cry of a raven at the crack of dawn, which better look out if Tom Waits is around.
You can’t make this shit up, except I already did and I didn’t have to talk about the scumbags and losers, (except that I did) who are prancing about on the set, giving the grips and the roadies fits and generally boring everyone within hearing and seeing distance. I’m thankful I’m not like them, nor affiliated with MKUltra or Tavistock neither. They missed me for some reason but I don’t miss them. Thank you for your patience and attention. I’m headed to the baths for some heat and some steam and some relaxation. See you on the flip side, or was this too flip already?
End Transmission.
This Sunday’s radio show is still up.


Smoking Mirrors looks at much of what the mainstream media ignores. While in Profiles in Evil, he seeks to expose those shrouded in darkness to nature’s most powerful disinfectant, light.

One response to “Smoking Bad Columbian Shake on Camelback Mountain”

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