Revisited the life of a car-less cat this week while the sled was in the shed getting hoses and clamps and thermostats and now it stopped crying and my joints are a little sore, but I didn't get hit by the funnel cloud, 'cause I beat it by 30 minutes on a bicycle and reached into the fridge and grabbed a Catastrophe Ale as the storm passed. Walked to a train to work and raced across the bar mats and Spoken Nerd stopped in on his way back to Nashville from the World Bird Sanctuary to get a growler of Coffee Stout. Today, I bled into the carbon-dioxide nightmare after walking through the morning sun. Took a nap all afternoon and then I watched this after an angel left the room.
Yeah, life is good before the Apocalypse and I am gonna do lots of readings get the words in Bad Shoe and The Bicycle Review and that's a fine how do you do for you willy wontcha... AND FUCK CARS!!!! Read a book.
We had an easy go of it last night at the Schlafly Tap Room. All you ninnies and lily-livers were licking your wounds from having eaten too much crap and washed it down with too much of something else while you missed a perfectly good football game and were horrified by a popular-culture twat bellowing the unfortunate anthem of our nation and then that halftime show that was....oh blah, blah, blahhhhgggg. I will get to the story. We got off a slow start and that meant that I was well-rested and left with attention and energy towards the time-of-the-night when I would usually be ready to close up and get myself off to some other form of entertainment. {OH, I THOUGHT YOU WERE A BAR. WE THOUGHT YOU'D BE OPEN UNTIL ATLEAST ONE!!! said the man to the waitress, last night.) Anyhoo, in walk some fine younguns off the street. Beeming with one buzz or another. I was down to one customer, whose humor was running very thin, so I set up the new group, gladly. They were on their second-round and we had all had some good laughs about the unfortunate mix of oxycontin and cocaine and the fifth leg on some buffalo that does not produce cheese (by the way)...and this and that and all over the place and Wow! I am stupid and how-about-that? Somehow the subject came up: Zed, when are you here? When do you bartend? I gave them my simple three-night schedule and per-most-Americans, they asked, what else do you do? Ha! "I am a poet", I said. "Used to do a radio show. Had a conversation with a drummer the other night. He said he once called Lenny Bruce a racist on my show", I said. Oh, they wanted to hear all about my seven years doing THE NO SHOW on KDHX, but one was brave enough to admit that she knew nothing of this LENNY BRUCE and nothing of the Beats, which I also mentioned, in reference to my hosting of DAY OF THE DEAD BEATS. At this point, I could say that I need to rewrite this whole thing and include hyperlinks to said projects, but I will instruct you to do your homework.
I sent her off to Google Sir Lenny and the Beat Generation. Woke up this morning thinking about it all and this bit in particular: To is a Preposition, Come is a Verb
To is a preposition. To is a preposition. Come is a verb. To is a preposition. Come is a verb. To is a preposition. Come is a verb, the verb intransitive. To come. To come. I've heard these two words my whole adult life, and as a kid when I thought I was sleeping. To come. To come. It's been like a big drum solo. Did you come? Did you come? Good. Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? Did you come good? I come better with you, sweetheart, than with anybody in the whole goddamn world. I really came so good and I came so good 'cause I love you. I really came so good. I come better with you, sweetheart, than anyone in the whole world. I really came so good. So good. But don't come in me. Don’t come in me. Don’t come in me Don't come in me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. Don’t come in me, me, me, me, me, me, me, me. Don't come in me. Don't come…. in me…in me in me. Don’t come in me, in me….in me. I can't come. 'Cause you don't love me--that's why you can't come. I can't come. I love you, I just can't come; that's my hang-up. I can't come when I'm loaded, all right? 'Cause you don't love me. Just what the hell is the matter with you-what has that got to do with loving? I just can't come that's all. Now if anyone is this room or the world finds those two words decadent, obscene, immoral, amoral, asexual-- the words "to come" really make you feel uncomfortable--if you think I'm rank for saying it to you, you the beholder think it's rank for listening to it, you probably can't come. And then you're of no use, because that's the purpose of life, to re-create it.
...and this tribute by Chumbawamba: BIG MOUTH STRIKES AGAIN! "I caught you with your head down the toilet as you were gulping up dirty words, then later dressed in suit and tie, whilst playing to the laughing crowds, you were gargling, spitting, fingers down your throat, making yourself so sick. Vomiting the words that you’d sucked and slurped all over the cops at the back! Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again Flucky now, flucky now, flucky now, oh my, it’s a good job Fusion cannot spell. ‘Cause if I could you know I’d get a lot of flack off the record company, always on my back. Well I thank God for watching what I’m doing. Whoops. Fusion watch what you’re saying. Remember what happened before when you tried to thank God, um, Christ, um, Him--you had to scrap your lyrics and throw them in the bin. I couldn’t win, it must’ve been a thing. Anyway I’ve been asked here not to give lip, but to talk about a topic which we call censorship. Musicians have no right to say what they want to. MC Fusion want to say some of the people say that blunt--nobody has the right to tell you want to do. ‘Cause if you do it to them, it may be [?] on you. Whoever bought this record try and figure out what the flucking hell is Fusion talking about, but it makes sense to the A G I T, cause this is what happened when they try to censor me. Ha. Finally, Fusion, I mean we, got freedom of speech. Censorship is a load of bollocks, and that’s what agitation propaganda and anything you can do, I can do better. ‘To’ is a preposition ‘Come’ is a verb ‘To come’ is a verb intransitive To come, to come Did you come? Did you come good? Good! Did you come? Did you come good? Good! Don’t come in me, don’t come in me Don’t come in me, don’t come in me It takes technique to thrill me! Did you come? Did you come good? Good! Did you come? Did you come good? Good! Did you come, come, come, come, come good? Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again (Good Thief routine) Stepford husbands, Stepford wives With longer scissors, sharper knives So sugar-sweet, they spend their time as censors, working overtime This good-good culture Bullshit motherfucker bullshit Welcome Christ, judges, lone ranger Bullshit motherfucker bullshit Padres, pastors, popes, priests Bullshit motherfucker bullshit Critics, comics, you, me Bullshit motherfucker bullshit Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again Big mouth, big mouth, big mouth strikes again"
...AMONGST THE SHIT AND LIFE WE LOST THIS YEAR, LET US RECOUNT MARK LINKOUS.
...will I have anything to say about a guy who changed my musical tastes? Keep checking this blog. I intend to add thoughts. This one hurt as much as Vic Chestnutt and Mik Miano; Hunter, too, yeah. Geez. So much left for us to witness without them and this whiskey is... SPARKLEHORSE
SPIRIT DITCH I want my records back and that motorcycle gas tank that I, spraypainted black the owls have been talking to me but I'm sworn to secrecy ...and oh HELL...lest my friends think that I don't mourn the passing of Dr. Van Vliet, too, here is something:
I woke up in a burnt out basement sleeping with metal hands in a spirit ditch
the moon it will rise with such horse laughter it's dragging pianos to the ocean if I had a home you'd know it'd be in a slide trombone
I woke up in a burnt out basement sleeping with metal hands in a spirit ditch
(mum on answerphone interlude)
I woke up in a burnt out basement sleeping with metal hands in a spirit ditch
...I remember the day I found the album VIVADIXIESUBMARINETRANSMISSIONPLOT in the stacks at Vintage Vinyl...I was with my dear friend, Marcia Pandolfi. We had eaten and had some drinks at the old Cicero's. I saw this case with the colors and the blurred visions and the mashed up title indicative of Beefheart's TROUTMASKREPLICA. Why this association? I don't know. I used to get drunk and shop. Fuck you! I bought my first NEGATIVLAND album on a similar impulse. I even remember the transaction at the cash register. The VV cat was very excited to tell us that Mark Linkous aka Sparklehorse had recently taken too many sleeping pills while on tour and had fallen out of bed. His legs had lost circulation and he had to finish the tour in a wheelchair. This astonished Marcia. It was only interesting to me because of the enthusiasm with which the merchant delivered it. Of course, it spiced my purchase. Short story fucked: I loved the album. It is a beautifully lyrical collection and it is ornery as HELL...AND lest my friends think I don't miss the passing of Dr. Van Vliet, check this out, too:
“I was an August day in Paris, on the Quai d’Orleans by the Seine. Hugo kept congratulating himself that this year he had postponed his departure to Deauville: the weather was fine and Magda quite entertaining. He did not like dining with pretty girls; at his age it was better to keep his pleasures separate. For a lunch like this what he needed was a hard-boiled, cynical old American, such as Magda, who appreciated her food and had good taste in wine. She admired him, but that left him indifferent: he had always been admired for his taste, his wealth, his splendid collection of porcelain, his knowledge of ancient Greek writers, his generosity, and his intelligence. He did not need other people’s admiration, yet Magda amused him. It was better, and more unusual to be amused than loved. “Egoist” “A weeping young woman had called him that once. The sensual memory of her tears still touched his heart pleasurably: she had been so young and so beautiful. He had been young then, too. Egoist…he might have replied that in this world of mad, brutal men and their stupid victims, the only harmless people were egoists like him. They did not hurt anyone. All the misery suffered by human beings, thought Hugo, is unleased by those who love others more than themselves and want that love to be acknowledged.” From THE SPECTATOR By Irène Némirovsky
THE GENIUS OF THE CROWD by Charles Bukoski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it and the best at hate are those who preach love and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god those who preach peace do not have peace those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers beware the knowers beware those who are always reading books beware those who either detest poverty or are proud of it beware those quick to praise for they need praise in return beware those who are quick to censor they are afraid of what they do not know beware those who seek constant crowds for they are nothing alone beware the average man the average woman beware their love, their love is average seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you to kill anybody not wanting solitude not understanding solitude they will attempt to destroy anything that differs from their own not being able to create art they will not understand art they will consider their failure as creators only as a failure of the world not being able to love fully they will believe your love incomplete and then they will hate you and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond like a knife like a mountain like a tiger like hemlock
It must really suck to be a Nazi slave, if you're a duck:
...and lots of good, wholesome, patriotic racism here (though, I did appreciate the nod to Dali near the end):
...and who can ever forget DUCKTATORS!!? I like the "Peace Conference" in this one ("have they forgot 'tis love that's right and naught is gained by show of might"):
Not sure yet if it is a good thing that the wind has scared me inside today on my 47th birthday, but I am panning through odds and ends in the stream that is the internet. Poem For My 43rd Birthday by Charles Bukowski To end up alone in a tomb of a room without cigarettes or wine-- just a lightbulb and a potbelly, grayhaired, and glad to have the room. ...in the morning they're out there making money: judges, carpenters, plumbers, doctors, newsboys, policemen, barbers, carwashers, dentists, florists, waitresses, cooks, cabdrivers... and you turn over to your left side to get the sun on your back and out of your eyes. from "All's Normal Here"
Oh! Ain't it the truth. Bukowski knew the importance of claiming time for yourself. "I don't have time!" they say. Take it! Make it yours!
I stood behind the bar last night with time to think, but not enough time to do much but serve and maximize the income. Stackin' the cheeze. "Why is this not pleasurable?" I thought. Around the bar and in the dining room, seemingly EVERYONE else was cussing and discussing something as I stood momentarily idle. Listening in, I again realized that I did not want to be included in any of their "conversations". Soon enough, I would be free to have my own inner conversations in my own time. You know what though? I never did. I came home to do some administrative work to try to wrestle the St. Louis public from their couches and barstools; their keypads and screens. I escaped for a bit for a brisk walk around the neighborhood and returned to have some drinks with a friend and later hit South Grand for a pint, a couple jiggers and a crazy-good Cuban at the City Diner. A good night. A very good night, all things considered, but I didn't quite free myself. No epiphanies. Oh, the poor, fucking prima donna! Ha! Crashed soon after in the safety of my bed and awoke to send the thickening schedule of the future to various heads. When I finish this bit of jibber-jabber, I will claim my time. A book, a nap, and another walk. If nothing else, the wind today will scare the life back into me. Enough of this existential pseudo-angst. Time for some time time time.... But WAIT! DON'T GO YET!!! Look what's coming up in 2011! All of this at the Schlafly Tap Room:
Paper Dolls http://www.myspace.com/wearethepaperdolls
January 14th:
This City of Takers http://www.thiscityoftakers.com/ The Transatlantic http://www.myspace.com/thetransatlanticmusic The Otto Modest http://www.facebook.com/theottomodest
April 2nd: Dulad http://www.myspace.com/duladsduelinginfinity/friends The Transatlantic http://www.myspace.com/thetransatlanticmusic Barefoot Jones http://www.myspace.com/barefootjonesrocks
April 8th Zevious (from Philadelphia) http://www.cuneiformrecords.com/bandshtml/zevious.html
Spelling Bee http://www.myspace.com/beespellingbee (Joseph Hess and Mabel Suen from KDHX' WRONG DIVISION)
Paper Dolls http://www.thesixtyone.com/#/PaperDollsSTL/
April 30th: Bunnygrunt http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bunnygrunt
THE KYLE SOWASHES (Columbus, Ohio) http://www.myspace.com/kylesowash
Black James http://www.myspace.com/littlejenniandthewaterhead
May 14th: Franklin Felix http://www.myspace.com/7098989
Megafauna http://www.myspace.com/mymegafauna
Tok http://www.myspace.com/tokandroll
As I sit and watch and listen to these acts, I wonder if I am in-FUCKING-sane to expect the public to grasp this array. Maybe I would be more successful if there were more scatter-brained, lazy poets with expendable time and cash to come to these shows. Please tell me I'm wrong...or don't.
Oh, yeah...other folks born on this date: Rainier Maria Rilke Crazy Horse John Cale Jeff Bridges Jay-Z and BIG POKEY!!
People bitch about Burroughs and Bukowski, saying they don't like their writing...some call them hacks. Blah, blah, blah... What I appreciate about them most at times is their outsider's take on the world. They allowed themselves the freedom to think outside of the work-a-day existence. Burroughs work is all about the struggle to unleash creativity from the powers of control. For instance: “words are still the principal instruments of control. Suggestions are words. Persuasions are words. Orders are words. No control machine so far devised can operate without words, and any control machine which attempts to do so relying entirely on external force or entirely on physical control of the mind will soon encounter the limits of control. “ from THE LIMITS OF CONTROL, 1975 “Verbal techniques are now being used to achieve more reliable computer-processed techniques in the direction of opinion control and manipulation, the ‘propoganda war’ it’s called.” THE JOB
“a modern government armed with heavy weapons and prepared for attack could wipe out ninety-five percent of its citizens. But who would do the work, and who would protect them from the soldiers and technicians needed to make and man the weapons?” from THE LIMITS OF CONTROL, 1975 “Americans have a special horror of giving up control, of letting things happen in their own way without interference.” From NAKED LUNCH “The whole of Western psychology has been sidetracked from the way it should have gone. It should have gone along the lines of Pavlov and the conditioned reflex.” From an interview reprinted in BRAINWASHING: THE FICTIONS OF MIND CONTROL: A STUDY OF NOVELS AND FILMS by David Seed "And what does the money machine eat to shit out? It eats youth, spontaneity, life, beauty and above all it eats creativity. It eats quality and shits out quantity." THE JOB "America may well be the hope of the world. It is also the source of such emotional plagues as drug hysteria, racism, Bible belt morality, Protestant capitalist ethic, muscular Christianity that have spread everywhere transforming this planet into an annex of Hell." THE JOB "America is not so much a nightmare as a non-dream. The American non-dream is precisely a move to wipe the dream out of existence. The dream is a spontaneous happening and therefore dangerous to a control system set up by non-dreamers." THE JOB "What I am here to learn is a new way of thinking. There are no lessons and no teachers. There are no books and no work to be done. I do almost nothing. The first step is to stop doing everything you "have to do"...The new way of thinking has nothing to do with logical thought. It is no oceanic organismal subconscious body thinking. It is precisely delineated from what is not. The new way of thinking is the thinking you would do if you didn’t have to think about any of the things you ordinarily think about if you had no work to do nothing to be afraid of no plans to make. Any exercises to achieve this must themselves be set aside. It’s a way you would think if you didn’t have to think up a way of thinking you don’t have to do. We learn to stop words to see and touch words to move and use words like objects." WSB--THE JOB
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Quick Fix By William S. Burroughs
To put the country simple, earth has a lot of things other folks might want...like the whole planet. And maybe these folks would like a few changes made. Like more carbon Dioxide in the atmosphere, and room for their way of life. We've seen this happen before, right in these United States.
Your way of life destroyed the Indian's way of life. The Indian reservation is extinction. But I offer this distinction. I'm with the invaders, no use trying to hide that. And at the same, I disagree with some of the things they are doing. Oh were not united anymore than you are Oh we're not united anymore than you are. Conservative factions is set on nuclear war as a solution to the Indian personality. Others disagree Others disagree I don't claim that my methods are one hundred percent humane, but I do say, if we can't think of anything quieter, and tidier than that... We are all not that much better than new earth aches. There is no place else to go The theater is closed There is no place else to go The theater is closed Cut word lines Cut music lines Smash the control images Smash the control machine.
Bukowski was a cruder sort. Did not have the academic background that Burroughs did. He took chances, though, and he certainly understood the importance of freeing ones self from the reins in order to get the important living done...and down.
POLITICS IS LIKE TRYING TO SCREW A CAT IN THE ASS
"Dear Mr. Bukowski: Why don't you ever write about politics or world affairs?" M.K.
"Dear M.K.: What for? Like, what's new? --- everybody knows the bacon is burning."
our raving takes place quite quietly while we are staring down at the hairs of a rug --- wondering what the shit went wrong when they blew up the trolley full of jellybeans with the poster of Popeye the Sailor stuck on the side. that's all that matters: the good dream gone, and when that's gone it's all gone. the rest is horseshit games for the Generals and money-makers, speaking of which --- I see where another U.S. bomber full of H-bombs fell out of the sky again --- THIS time into the sea while SUPPOSEDLY protecting my life. the State Dept. says the H-bombs were "unarmed," whatever that means. then we continue to read where one of the H-bombs (lost) had split open and was spreading radioactive shit everywhere while supposedly protecting me WHILE I hadn't even asked for protection. the difference between a Democracy and a Dictatorship is that you don't have to waste your time voting. getting back to the H-bomb dropout --- a little while back the same thing happened off the coast of SPAIN. (we are everywhere, protecting me.) again the bombs get lost --- careless little toys. it took them 3 months --- if I remember properly --- to find and lift that last bomb out of there. it may have been 3 weeks but to the people in that coast town it must have seemed 3 years. that last bomb --- the god damned thing had gotten itself wedged on the edge of a sandhill far down in the sea. and everytime they tried to hook the thing, so tenderly, it would shake loose and roll a little further down the hill. meanwhile, all the poor people in that coast town were tossing in their beds at night wondering if they'd be blown to hell, courtesy of the Stars and Stripes. of course, the U.S. State Dept. issued a state ment saying the H-bomb had no detonation fuse, but meanwhile the rich had left for other parts and the American sailors and townspeople looked very nervous. (after all, it the things couldn't blow up what were they flying them around for? might as well carry 2-ton salamis. fuse means "spark" or "trigger," and "spark" can come from any where, and "trigger" means "jolt" or any similar action that will set off the firing mechanism. NOW the terminology is "unarmed," which sounds safer but is the same thing.) anyhow, they hooked at the bomb but as the saying goes, the thing seemed to have a mind of its own. then a few undersea storms came about and our lovely little bomb rolled further and further down its hill. the sea is very deep, much deeper than our leadership. finally, special equipment was designed just to haul bomb-ass and the thing was pulled from the sea. Palomares. yes, that's where it happened: Palomares. and you know what they did next? --- the American Navy had a BAND CONCERT in the town park in celebration of finding the bomb - if the thing wasn't dangerous they were really cutting loose. yes, and the sailors played the music together, one big sexual and spiritual release. whatever happened to the bomb they pulled out of the sea, I don't know, nobody (except the few) knows, and the band played on. while 1,000 tons of radio- active Spanish topsoil was shipped to Aiken, S.C. in sealed containers. I'll be the rent is cheap in Aiken, S.C. so now our bombs are swimming and sinking, chilled and "un- armed" about Iceland. so what do you do when you've got the people's minds on something not so good? easy, you get their minds on something else. they can only think about one thing at a time. like, all right, head line of Jan. 23, 1968: B-52 CRASHES OFF GREENLAND WITH H-BOMBS; DANES IRKED. Danes irked? oh, mother! anyhow, suddenly, Jan. 24, headline: NORTH KOREANS SEIZE U.S. NAVY SHIP. oh boy, patriotism is back! why, those dirty bastards! I thought THAT war was over! ah ha, I see --- the REDS! Korean puppets! it says under the A.P. wirephoto, something like this --- the U.S. intelligence shop Pueblo --- formerly an army cargo ship, now converted into one of the Navy's secret spy ships equipped with electric monitoring gear and oceanographic equipment was forced into Wonsan Harbor off the coast of North Korea. those dirty Red bastards, always fucking around! but I DID notice that the lost H-bomb story got shoved into a small space: "Radiation Detected at B-52 Crash Site; Split Bomb hinted." we are told that the president was awakened between 2 a.m. and 2:30 a.m. and told of the capture of the Pueblo. I presume he went back to sleep. the U.S. says the Pueblo was in international waters; the Koreans say the shop was in territorial waters. one country is lying, one is not. then one wonders, what good is a spy ship in international waters? it's like wearing a raincoat on a sunny day. the closer you can get on in, the better your instruments pick up. headline: Jan. 26, 1968: U.S. CALLS UP 14,700 AIR RESERVISTS. the lost H-bombs off Iceland have completely disappeared from print as if it had never happened. meanwhile: Sen. John C. Stennis (D.-Miss.) said Mr. Johnson's decision (the call- up of Air Reserves_ was "necessary and justified" and added, "I hope he will not hesitate to mobilize ground reserve components as well." Senate minority leader, Richard B. Russell (D.-Ga.): "In the last analysis, this country must get the return of that ship and the men that were seized. after all, great wars have started from much less serious incidents than this." House Speaker John W. McCormack (D.-Mass.): "The American people have to wake up to the realization that communism is still bent on world domination. there is too much apathy about it." I think that if Adolph Hitler were around now he would pretty much enjoy the present scene. what's there to say about politics and world affairs? the Berlin Crisis, the Cuban crisis, spy planes, spy ships, Vietnam, Korea, lost H- bombs, riots in American cities, starvation in India, purge in Red China? are there good guys and bad guys? some that always lie, some that never lie? are there good governments and bad governments? no, there are only bad governments and worse governments. will there be a flash of light and heat that rips us apart one night while we are screwing or crapping or reading the comic strips or pasting blue-chip stamps into a book? instant death is nothing new, nor is mass instant death new. but we've improved the product; we've had these centuries of knowledge and culture and discovery to work with; the libraries are fat and crawling and overcrowded with books; great paintings sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars; medical science is transplanting the human heart; you can't tell a madman from a sane one upon the streets, and suddenly we find our lives, again, in the hands of the idiots. the bombs may never drop; the bombs might drop. eeney, meeney, miney, mo- now if you'll forgive me, dear readers, I'll get back to the whores and the horses and the booze, while there's time. if these contain death, then, to me, it seems far less offensive to be responsible for your own death than the other kind which is brough to you fringed with phrases of Freedom and Democracy and Humanity and/or any of all that Bullshit. first post, 12:30. first drink, now. and the whores will always be around. Clara, Penny, Alice, Jo- eeny, meeney, miney, mo- from THE MOST BEAUTIFUL WOMAN IN TOWN & other stories by Charles Bukowski
...and there's this from NOTES OF A DIRTY OLD MAN:
"I don't want to get as holy about being active and involved with mankind as Camus did (see his essays) because basically most of mankind sickens me and the only saving that can be done is a whole new concept of Universal Education-Vibration understanding of happiness, reality and flow, and that's for the little children who ain't murdered yet, but they will be, I'll lay you twenty-five to one, for no new concept will be allowed--it would be too destructive to the power gang. no, I'm no Camus, but, sweetheart, it bothers me to see the Klankheads making hay out of Tragedy. Gov. Reagan's statement, in part: "The average man, decent law-abiding, God-fearing, is as disturbed and worried as you and I about what happened. "He, and all of us, are the victims of an attitude that has been growing in our land for nearly a decade---an attitude that says a man can choose the laws he must obey, that he can take the law into his own hands for a cause, that crime does not necessarily mean punishment. "This attitude has been spurred by demagogic and irresponsible words of so-called leaders in and out of office."
but, God, I can't go on. it's so dreary. the Father-Image with ye old razor strop to whip our ass. now the good governor is going to take away our toys and put us to bed without dinner. lord, lord. I didn't murder Kennedy, either one of them. or King. or Malcolm X. or the rest. but it's fairly obvious to me that the Left Wing Liberal forces are being picked off one by one--whatever the reason (a suspect who once worked in a health food store and hated Jews)--whatever the reason, the left-wingers are being murdered and put into graves while the right-wingers don't even get grass-stains upon their pantscuffs, and weren't Roosevelt and Truman also shot at? Democrats. how very odd. that the assassins are sick, I will admit. I'm also told by the God-fearing that I have "sinned" because I was born a human being and once upon a time human beings did something to one Jesus Christ. I neither killed Christ or Kennedy and neither did Gov. Reagan. that makes us even, not one up. I see no reason to love any judicial or spiritual freedoms, small as they may be now. who is bullshitting who? if a man dies in bed while fucking, must the rest of us stop copulating? if one non-citizen is a madman must all citizens be treated as madmen? if somebody killed God, did I want to kill God? if somebody wanted to kill Kennedy did I want to kill Kennedy? what makes the governor, himself, so right and the rest of us so wrong? speech-writers, and not very good ones at that...what they won't tell us is that our madmen, our assassins do spring from out present mode of life, our good old All-American way of living and dying. Christ, that we are all not outwardly raving, that's the miracle! and since we have been rather sombre here, let's end it on the light fantastic, speaking, as we are, about madness."
"He's got a lot of irons in the fire", she whispered, several feet away from the bar not knowing that he hears everything.
Everything!
It is quite maddening sometimes. Or atleast it used to be. Now he can weave mariachi with chainsaws; bowed cymbals with bees buzzing; bird calls with babbling seamen and jingling trinkets.
He doesn't mind at all, you see.
It just the music of his city.
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