Saturday, March 08, 2008

Uncle Sam Wants You!

Waking up in a cell I realize that all I have left is the sell—the pitch—the pander—the lie. I see it in their eyes—the people in suits who stole me from myself—the soldiers in boots who don’t ask but tell—tell me the truth that I just need to approve—it doesn’t matter whether it’s true because this world war is new—this world war is not about blood, guns, or food—this world war is a word war and it’s coming for you—we’re in the midst of an epistemological rift—the grand narrative has been shattered to bits leaving the powers that be in fear of revolutionary hits as they scramble to impose a new world order that fits the new world disorder with a brand new bit so they can break the mavericks and rein us in—this shit isn’t about terrorism—this word war is about building prisons in suburbs and shopping malls—it’s about exploiting the use-value of fear so that we devalue the truth-value of mirrors because self-reflection is a deadly weapon so instead invest our world in self-deception—we purchase lies—we rampage lives—working and feeding in hives—purchase power getting us high—we’re afraid of sin so we ingest their molestations of religion—it’s all about those family values—honor thy mother and father—love thy sisters and brothers—but I refuse to love big brother so the rats disembowel me—I refuse to love big brother so they wrap a metaphorical towel around me—but I’m proud to be a towel-head because symbolically it means my mind is sheltered from the reign of terror falling upon me—that’s right I called myself a towel-head because like I said this here is a word war and there’s no victory in throwing a P.C. fit—no—we need to embrace their taxonomic economics and flip the script—think of it as inverting the pyramid of the eternal class conflict—after all slaves built that shit—in every possible way—and now its time to remember that those hierarchical monstrosities of stone are nothing more than a tomb for the kings and I think its time to elevate our queens and put our faith in the womb—in life, beauty, and creation—time to turn away from kings, tombs, and devastation—but then I look around this room—this Guantanamo tomb—and see nothing but stone and then I realize that the kings have won—[that freedom no longer roams]—that liberty has been liberated, confiscated, recalculated, and fractionated—and that masks cover our eyes—so I stamp their document and validate their truth because that’s all I have left—the pitch—the pander—the lie—because truth is dead—there’s only spin, interpretation and relative points-of-view—and if there is no truth than what does it matter who or what rules—everything is a ruse—and perhaps that’s all that’s really true and maybe I should thank big brother because I finally learned just what is truth and it came from all their abuse—this here is a word war and Uncle Sam wants you!

Tuesday, March 04, 2008

The Spirits

Every drink kills a city of ideas
reverberating like an electric-city
of mad abstraction in the
subconscious landscapes of my electric
movie house. So, I drink again and
again—hoping that the next drink
will induce a blackout of
Enron-like proportion. I drink again
in the hopes of hushing
the world within and flooding
the whole goddamn thing
with the sweet ethanol
tides of Lethe unleashed. I
drink for the embrace of
shadows and the silence of
an eternal necropolis unfolding, so
that I might finally gaze at the
speckles of cosmic light harbored
above. I drink to erase the everything
so that only truth remains—that great big
nothing of cold, cold space. I drink to fill
the bottomless vacuum of a nauseous
soul's stomach. I pour this vodka starlight
into a translucent glass and gulp down
a hard bite of oblivion and then I do it
again and again.

The Oracle

Vomit still in
my mouth and
sewer water on
my feet, I take
a reverent sip
of day-old diner
coffee and stub
my stale cigarette;
The ash expires.
Surrounded by 5-cent
vices, I see
myself as I would
in a murky, motley
sludge of motor oil
and rain. How
did I become
this speckled,