who cannot be fatally wounded, were itself learning to despise it a bit, we bring acquaintances, reason to turn this feeling against ourselves. And so will he says:”Friends, there are no friends!” the dying looked Trinity
i’m mean :: you’re a sanctimonious shithead
word :: de grouchy
even under the rim
just so’s you know my wings and i’m wired
duster if you will
buster
roomba lambkins
wild you between (earth sandwich) standup and sit down’s where the you like some bread?
- m. levy
* * *
Oddly roomba lambkins above has led me to a turning point around which buzz my thoughts like bees, puzzled that the hive’s been moved.
We need a guidebook. The truth awaits. There is no god, reason dominates. Every pope and every priest should do the perp walk, get booked, (ironic that it says that on the wall), spend the night in the can, join the junkies in the morning for arraignment, be tried, found guilty, identified as conspirators in the cartel of faith, organized oppression.
One single tiny facet on the glittering Hope diamond of truth and as good a place as any to start.
We know what we need and we know how to organize it, but we have to remember that we owe the mad beasts nothing, not life itself, nor cruel death, but we owe ourselves a grand usurpation, a retrieval of power that will put culture back in our hands, build hospitals, assure warm shelters, food, not just clothing but style, choice. Schools, and hang the fuckers foolish enough to trot out Bishop Ussher’s calculation, seventeenth century fanatic, he knew no better, but we do, damn it. Libraries. Bandwidth. Trains, boats, planes, sedans, roads, off-road vehicles where there no roads, but never, not ever, for a short hop to the strip mall.
We need to draw the roadmap. What does it take? What would it cost? What’s the peak demand for hospital beds across the world? How do we meet it? Chickens? Pots? Rice bowls full for everyone, and roadside asparagus and mayonnaise. What would it take? How many tractors running on what kind of fuel cultivating how many hectares planted in what kind of crops? Electricity. Pavement. Forested secret places with moist shadows and spring ephemerals. Vast herds of bison. Gnus for that matter. Video games and a walk on the veldt. Kill all the pampas grass growing wild in the cracked pavement of the World Airways terminal at Oakland airport. Spare the herring spawning there on the bayshore rocks. Restore some balance. Don’t let the polar bears drown. Limit combustion. Grow some glaciers.
All these things are possible and more, but first we have to remember to laugh heartily with the credulous, about the credulity, as we rescue them from their opiate slumbers. Free mental health care for monotheists, tough love and perhaps detachment. Leave them to jerk off behind the altars in empty crumbling churches smashed on cheap communion wine if they don’t want to get with the program. There will always be the stubborn others, but they have no right to spread that poison anymore.
Come. Join my church of the know-it-all. Send money. Remark on the “meet the new boss same as the old boss” irony of the great cycle of credulousness, but melt those chalices, pull down those foolish symbols of helplessness and let’s get on with the hopeless job of making it all better. I think we can have this party without inviting Madame da Farge. There are plenty of cells for the corporatists, the Bush fraternity of banal evil. Put them in there with the pederasts and the recidivists. Don’t allow their nattering to distract us from the planning, the building something new and brave and true.
