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O Rapture! The Disaster of Life!: Book II – Corporate Culture Is an Oxymoron

Song of the Codependent Worker-Bee

Skittering. A Fear drops from some sky.
Where the Hell do I file this?
Don’t get too angry with me, OK?
I only breathed a little.

Maybe I don’t try hard enough.
Do you scare me?  No NO! Where’d
You Get That Idea? I’m scared
all right. Of air, though. That’s all.

Air and Water and Flesh and Blood.
Don’t Mind Me. I hope you won’t
be too mad. I only breathed
a little.  Like I said.

(You heard what I said, right?)

So where does this go, d’ya know?
Oh Uh Huh, Right, you told me.
I forgot though, cold of the moment.
See I’m the worst worker you have.

I’ve been here only nine
years. You’d think I’d learn something
in all that time. By the way,
I told you I only breathed a little,

didn’t I?  Oh, three times already?
You don’t say. Huh. Guess you’ll
remember then. (That wasn’t sarcastic
was it?  Where did that come from?

I’m just gonna have to ship myself
off to a Siberia. I swear I don’t
know what gets into me sometimes.)
So after I’m done with you

it’ll be time to die.
That way fear of life
or simply getting in the way
(Which my resume indicates

is my prime talent) won’t be an issue.
I won’t drink much–
in fact you’ll imbibe me soon enough.
(And eat me too, but I don’t want

to gross you out.) And there will be
one less burden taking in precious
oxygen. I won’t breathe at all starting
at 8:30 P.M. The Next and Last Item

on my ToDo list, that is. (To-Die List
that is.)  I’ll check out tonight
and don’t worry I’ve taken care the details.
Put my check in tomorrow, the temp’s

in the mail. Or you know what I mean,
right?  Oh, you know me so well.
Change is daunting, but hey! We’re both
up to the task at hand, don’t you think?

And I promise I will put back what I breathed
earlier today. You’ll make your quota.
All will be well with the Person.
Everything will be hunky-dory.

Maybe it’s just me, but . . .

last time I checked, “Corporate” was not a synonym
for “American.” And yet it’s as if national
images conflate with evil bottom lineage.

Multinationals have no nationality.
Bodies without organs — fake monstrosities kill
off real breathing people. Responsible to none.

I am American (Northern variety)
I can vomit dissent put up the good old fight
to call for a hybrid service of rulership.

FDR Number One Twentieth Century
Executive Office, saved us from fascism
excesses of wealthy shells eviscerated.

Ever vigilant, we must guard the warm free flame
against more encroachment.  I hope we have not failed
that a spark still burns bright amidst sell-outs and shame.

Countries are not business.  To govern, not manage
(plunder another word therefor, might as well) – that’s
incumbent on us, real flesh/blood Americans.

There’s more to us humans than incorporating
the State of Delaware (whore by any other name,
1906, evil year ano infirmus).

We people count for more, emerging from mothers,
our existence rises from more than legality
but the provincial slut, first among fifty, spread

eagle on the floor.  And so you, me and G
E are all cryin’ same under our very own laws.
Heinous shorthand won out over our sacred breaths.

IBMerican, yes, a sadness insane.
We fall pell-mell down dark bottomless abyss, lost
to our humanity, spiritual bankrupt.

I don’t hate the country, but freedom is hard work.
To stand and say, “Excuse me, I have a problem”–
that riles corporate mindset, but American sure.

Occult business cancer metastasizes through
the national moodswings.  Newspapers serve slave
to base insidious cost centers/trauma holes.

These erstwhile patriots – masters image manage —
meant to teach you and me our eyes don’t see correct,
our ears don’t listen right, our skin can not feel shit.

But shit is all they know.  Fecal traces collect
bank statements, stock issues.  Death, slaughter-outhouse
bouquet wafts delicious from capital exchange.

Yes, life for EBITDA fair enough on paper
anyway you slice us.  (I mean, “way you slice it.”
Persons, so sensitive!  At least you mean well, right?)

Loyal opposition – this is our requirement.
Thomas Paine 10.3, crank up the crankiest!
A guardian of rage for compassion actions.

Else “We the People” turns toward “We the Persons”
as Wilmington defines the lawful term, include
Microsoft and Nike amidst tissues and blood.

No, a nations is built from a child up and up
CEOs and homeless equal measures, hurrah!
Jack Welch is no better than John Bowery-Bum.

Challenge to make it real, article of great faith.
Value distributed fair and equitable
money irrelevant, status no consequence.

Our America exists in both reality
and bright idealized.  Let’s not toss distinction
into the garbage heap.  Wagging tongues love the best.

Something I Hate about New York

Oy gefilte fish, if I don’t find a bathroom
in the next five minutes
I’ll be wearing smelly brown play-dough
made fresh by the factory in my behind.

I never know if it’s okay–
Do I go into Phebe’s, pretend I’m looking or someone?
Quietly slip into the throne room and dump the belongings
into the handy-dandy respectacle reserved for recepted customers?

Or do I mosey into the Boiler Room,
pretending that I’m interested in the dull gray interior
and the duller grayer men in suits there habited
as I cruise for the loo to schmooze with the ooze?

Or do I do the respectable thing and go to Limbo
(ay ay ay, Avenue A can I make it?)
and buy a cup of joe and ask the guy who looks like Milhouse
if I can have the ladel with the key?

All I know is, I won’t make it to Avenue B.
If I don’t do something now, I’ll–Oops!
Poops. Smell me now, boys and girls.
Another pair of underwear bites the dust.


What Else I Hate About New York

Radio stations and Polish diners and No Denny’s

and crowded streets and tourists from booneyvile

(I mean Booneyville–typo)

and Broadway shows and most Off-Broadway shows

and Jewish fundamentalists and gay fundamentalists

and white homie wannabes and black men in suspenders

(thought that look went out when Jesse Helms)

and obscurantist performance artists with attitude

and nice people in suits

and surly people in black

and surly people in general

and 23-year-olds in general

and Gaps and Blockbusters every 5 blocks

and Barnes & Nobles in every district

and 6th Avenue between 14th and 23rd Street

and 7th Avenue between 14th and 23rd Street

and 5th Avenue between Washington Square and Central Park

(guess that about covers everything don’t it?)

and Midtown, except for its nostalgic buzz

and what’s happening to the East Village

because it’s already happened to the West Village

and is spreading eastward

and it didn’t even have to happen to Chelsea,

which sprang from Manhattan’s head with its gentrification nausea

deus ex machina,

and losing rent control and rent stabilization

and not losing rent control and rent stabilization

and feeling like everything’s so competitive

when the people here seem more like me in general

and that few middle class people live here

(though they are bitter pills to handle, aren’t they?)

and that rich and poor don’t really talk to each other

and that pain and misery and fear all live side by side

with rats and roaches and Rent

and the fact that a boy I loved lives on the Upper West Side

and that he doesn’t love me

and that it’s 12 years ago already

and I hope that’s not the reason I’m staying here

and having said all this, I know with the utmost certainty

the ABSOLUTE worst thing is,

that no matter how bad things may seem to get here

no matter how many thousands of creepy-crawlies may take over

no matter how many Manhattan landlords will slither through

the cracks of my bank account no matter how insulted I may feel

by drunks and breeders from Jersey and what-not

that just about every place else is worse.

Start with Los Angeles which has to be the worst,

and working your way up, Manhattan for this gay

performance artist with a Dartmouth degree

an MFA from NYU, and ten years experience working for slave wages

No place could be finer than to be in a Greek Diner

in the wee hours of the morning… (I’m too White for my skin.)

Third World Dramatist

I am the Mozambique of Playwriting.
Look upon me, ravaged, war-torn.
Inside my borders, there are untapped
resources, laying dormant ‘neath my skin.
I am being plundered and raped
by my uptown neighbors
with their law degrees and MBAs.
I am hungry for slaughter
but powerless even to clip my toenails.

I am the Mozambique of Playwriting.
Look upon me, pristine and decrepit.
My luxurious beaches as yet
untrammeled by the New York jet set.
My jungles a furnace of tragicomic
passions, incontrovertible into sit-com
excuses for sponsored product-placement.
Living poor in a world of death riches
I breathe in and out spirits of vibrancy.

I am the Mozambique of Playwriting.
Look upon me, once a promising colony.
Now I am overrun by economic fascisms
attending to concerns of control
and oppression.  You only think the isms
and -ations have been vanquished.
I am proof that wars are justified
Kill the markets, off with shit-eating heads!

I am the Mozambique of Playwriting.
Look upon me, kept down so long
I almost forgot that first world of the craft
Mamet, Guare, McNally, Howe, and Wasserstein LLP
are down here with me, to maintain their
Thanatos Lucre on my fucking aching back
Get off me you cunts! My turn in the sun shall come
and spritz your dead faces with my lifegiving seed.

For I am the Mozambique
of Playwriting. Look upon me,
my texts, my sex my lex.  Look
and be renewed!

A Celebration of Being White and Male

Privilege is such an ugly word.
I remember sometimes with discomfort
that this word does in fact apply to me
because I’m fair
because I’ve got a dick
because I’ve got an education.

It’s tough to know when guilt is appropriate
when all some people want is to shame me
for this unwanted but guarded thing
we call privilege.  I for one don’t know
how to use it. I call it a burden,
but then, I was always afraid of carrying things.

Carrying a privilege means a bestowal
from people I may not necessarily respect
for things I may not necessarily value
as much as they do.
I don’t see that I have a white dude’s load
to make sure that women and POC’s get just a little.

Because I know that game too well.
It doesn’t matter that I’m white and male
when I have to work for an abusive jerk
from Utah via Camp Pendleton,
Home to stalwart up-and-down marines
Who have no place for softness or openness.

The burden of privilege is one of being a gatekeeper,
or an MP and I’m frequently one that’s kept out
with the all-y’alls and the girlygirls.
I’m in a different kind of brig.
One situated farther out from the privileged
than you might at first think.

It’s a tangled knot, a hierarchy of competing threads
that coalesce to create the American caste-system.
There’s the male-female thread, the color thread,
the class thread, the sexuality thread, the ability thread,
and then there are the not-so-subtle threads
conveniently forgotten–the beauty and dress-for-success threads.

What good is privilege if you dress
in your state of mind? All of it can be thrown away
with a careless fashion choice, or a night
of Pizza diving. The best looking black lesbian
has as much chance as I do. Maybe even more
than I can ever know. Especially in a Louis Vuitton.

‘Cause I’m not in with the black thang.
And I get mad when that table’s turned on me.
And it’s great I get mad ‘cause that’s what’s what.
But I get tears in my face ‘cause of it
Because what I know is that all these threads
that tangle in knots, trip us up.

And when we fall, we don’t fall toward one another
we fall apart.  And I feel like I’m losing something
yet again, and won’t exactly know what it is
until some day handsome black boy with a superior job
is looking me in the eye from across a chasm of documents
that I must create, I must file, spindle, mutilate for him.

And from my little cubicle at the office,
I won’t be able to help thinking to myself
“He’s just like that stick-up-the-butt Mormon ex-Marine
cunt I worked for out of college
and fantasized performative suicide because of.
Damn, how’d I end up in this place again?”

Attorney Portrait:  Deborah

OK, she’s a Leo?  and she talks with authority?

and she works out? but is really repressed?

and she marks up redlines? because she

really does believe that it’s for my own good?

and she things nothing of talking on the phone?

with clients? other attorneys? her parents?

while secretly she has to pee?

really really bad?

(Oh, my God, I have to go really, really bad?)

and the Partners yell at her?

So she yells at her secretary?

who won’t have none of that shit?

thank you very much?

so she brings documents into Word Processing?

“Who will do it better anyway,

’cause those guys are professionals?”

and she calls in proofreaders?

because it’s cheaper for the client?

and why should she, a senior associate?

sit and proofread anyway? because she has

a J.D.? and proof that she’s better than that?

that proofreading is so beneath her?

Should exempt her from some things?

and she will tell you the importance

of the commas in the exact right places?

and why a sentence should go on

for a really really long time

before you get to a period?


Of course.

Like duh.

Reflections (an ironic title…)

Sometimes I think the best thing
for everyone would be a mass
suicide.  There are those
who’d love to crawl over corpses
because they think that is their loot
in life.  The more we “progress” the baser
we get.  Could it be that the halcyon
days were ones I never experienced?

I was born post-JFK
so I was too young to sample
the joys of sexual liberation,
but not young enough to know
the sorrows of AIDS cry-sisters.
I did not know the days of expression
but live inside the days of Madison Avenue
and forgive me for not embracing
Cap’n Crunch instead of holding
a rather rapacious Captain America in my arms.

I have a lot of rage
I have a lot of anger
I have more than my share of shame
resentment sadness and fear
I struggle with their conversion
into useful tools, I don’t want
madly to spew my feelings
willy-nilly in torrents of fulmination
for I too have been slimed by others’
exhortations of toxic waste.

But today I feel as polluted
as a patakihudson, as the whore
of Giuliani’s Il Duce Times Square
with the Disney Store’s gaping cunt
selling its stuffed animal shaped
uterine fibroids with Mouse ears
and Goofy chuckles.  So soiled and dirty
am I below the fecal filth of lowered expectation.

And we live in a sewer
and we continue to slurp turds
and we convince ourselves we’re superior
when all we are is beetles on the ground
and even a sheep is better than us
and we bow down in front of a golden
calf grown up, a bull market bitch
has us all by our ovaries
and is squeezing with such joy and rapture.

We bear forth a stillborn generation
Ricky, Britney, Pokemon
and hail the sterile clones
and fall prey once more
to strangers bearing candy
but keeping their swords hidden
until the right moment comes
when they can lop off as many heads
as the global guillotine will take.

Gods of Failure

When someone finds himself witnessing
the failure of his own ego and sense of self
All he can do is open up his arms in welcome.
He must give embrace to this ruination
accompanying the sense that it just doesn’t work
the way that he thought it was supposed to.

On paper, this is most abject.  How can I fail
at being me?  The ledger sheet is most clear.
I have a nowhere job, a stagnant career.
The apartment I call home holds no lover
to greet me upon my return.  Fame is as elusive
as six for six in the state lottery.

The externals revel in their distress, it’s true.
Ah, yes, but no matter. This is a failure masking
the real victory, a triumph of godly proportions.
To be awake for this trumpeting of loss
to be fully-conscious as the waves of reduction
overtake him.  That is the truest of all gifts.

The mask I’ve built over three plus decades
no longer serves me.  It’s fallen to the ground
and shattered into a million pieces.  Some will
be lost forever, to be sure.  But the pieces remaining
the salvageable, the necessary, they can be reassembled
in a shape and texture I find interesting.

A truth will emerge in good time, the truth of myself.
We talk much about walking our paths,
that we have a calling to follow, whatever that may be.
I have begun to wonder if the construction and wreckage
of the self is in itself a path all its own.  Who am I,
but an ever amended and restated version of what went before?

And so, ye gods of failure, I welcome Thee with whole heart.
Come into this fat, hairy temple and rest awhile.
Change the décor as Thou seest fit, for Thou knowest better
than I do what will serve me in the years to come.
Bring into this vehicle Thy sense of cosmic and comic
design and architecture.  Prepare me for the adventure that lies ahead.

The Golden Bull Market

Let us dance before our God,
toothsome Moloch, the insatiable
He bears eine Name modernste

The Golden Bull Market!

Let us rejoice and be glad
for he is Jehovah’s incisors
a blessing on us all
for he will cure cancer

The Golden Bull Market
has everything in store
for whatever may ail you.
A broken heart, a scraped ego

It doesn’t matter, he will come
and give you aid.  That is if you have
enough silver or gold or Pentium
to pay its steepest price.

Let the Golden Bull Market
open wide his toothsome mouths
so that he may devour you and me
and suck us all dry of what ails us.

It’s nothing less than your flesh,
your blood bones and humanity
that he requires.  Mensches?
Need not apply!  Stay outside the fuck

The Pearly Wall Street Gates
and the Redmond Washington Bill Gates
and the L.A. Blue Daryl Gates
and the CIA Secret Robert Gates

We brook no opposition
convince you that your position
is on the floor, no imposition
we enforce our supposition

The Golden Bull Market has it all,
a panacea for the world’s woes
the above-ground world of wealth
built on the backs of whatevers.

The Golden Bull Market will kill
all Kennys who come from poverty
whose only but awf’lest sin
is to have only a little

as they live in towns that give lie
to the burden of the poor.
We close the gates on mere people
let them drown in the air.

So let us rejoice and be glad
and buy ourselves into a stupor
and let the creditors call
for we’ll all die in ten minutes.

Yes, let us rejoice and be glad
the Golden Bullshit Market adorned
with screaming Levittown blood
and dashed Northglenn dreams.

The Golden Bull Market won’t be sated
until all deaths are brought forth
the murder or your humanity
that’s the place to start.

So go and judge your neighbor–
it’s not like you know him or anything–
and find a crime to pin on him
and bring your video camera.

Because it shall be broadcaste
on some A&ESPNBC-BS whore
(the Golden Bull Market’s teeth
have been sunk in many a hole)

Your neighbor, foregone conclusion
found guilty, a ratings bonanza
and the advertisers shall beam
because of the wholesome fare.

And as he’s led to the gallows
his lonely tears muffled
the Golden Bull Market will spew
his cum in everyone’s hair.

And when your neighbor is buried
perhaps you shall be next
One never knows the next target–
keeps everyone on their toes

So if you’re not the next neighbor
to be done unto that way,
you have another day to rejoice
to Moloch’s Bull Market great fest.

Open another Molson.
Have another Microsoft canape.
Indulge in the leather interior
of Sam Walton’s fantasy.

So don’t dwell on if you’re the neighbor
to be done unto this way,
It’s not your concern or your business
for this is only Moloch’s day.

Let us dance and give thanks to Moloch
a Judeo-Christo-Islamic B-A-A-L Game
His turds our coins and our Swee-tarts
his piss gold our Mountain Dew.

Let us dance and give thanks to Moloch
Our savior and rescuer anew.
He has the cures for what ails us.
He has the knives to kill you.


Perhaps it’s in my genes

but I get enraged a lot

and I get hurt too.

The last time I got badly hurt

this attorney yelled at me

for taking a message.

Fragile and delicate, a part of me

I didn’t know I had exposed

flung to the ground by Mr. Cunt’s tongue.

Smashed on the ground in a million

pieces, shattered in an instant.

No one had talked that way to me in a long time.

So I feel in my amputation, a toxic

resentment course through my veins

with justified vindication

Let me drink strychnine, so Mr. Cunt will die.

Let me take the poison to get back at it.

I can’t even call Mr. Cunt human.

And yet he was named after his grandpa

and he has a legacy himself.

On some level I seem to care.  I do.

But is it OK too if I want him

dead and his family dead and his house

burned to the ground so I can piss in the ashes?


The forerunners were prophetic.
Yes, Zamyatin saw Stalin,
Orwell envisioned and Huxley
saw ahead as well.  Partial
sight, perhaps blind or ignorant
of the dormant behemoth.

While characters may rally
around the One State, the Big
brother, Ford Bless, the danger
today results from ovi-concentration
in the marketplace camp.
Bottom line equals God.

This reductive equation
levels out the human element,
exemplified in aching backs
and hands and knees sore
from effort and detergents.
Janitors just don’t count for much.

And yet so much depends
upon the humble man pushing
his cart along sterile halls
of Market, Inc., the cleaning
lady on her knees scrubbing
shit and piss off the slaughterhouse floor.

We everyday consumers
(a sad, bitter word) stand
in our fattening pens
unaware of the carnage
awaiting us down the way.
Heads on the chopping block.

On the road to sheepledom, are we,
obediently wandering the malls,
looking for fabu self-image
whether size small or extra-large,
even as a soul-castrator follows
ready to unman us in front of Sears.

And when we are called, we’ll arrive
and see our wool shorn, to be sold back
to ourselves.  And when the time comes,
we’ll bleat mournfully as the butchers
pull out our necks for a quick
cut across our pliant throats.

The thing Orwell et al., forgot
to mention is that other entities
can stand in place of the One Brother.
Other forms just as disembodied,
but perhaps seen as our equals,
in the woeful-blind eyes of law.

We flesh and blood persons —
mere humans of finite shelf life –
are easily divorced from awareness
of our very own requirements.
Why suffer broccoli and chicken
when corn chips and candy bars await?

And so easily is the wish for death,
slow, painful, ugly, installed
in our intestinal cravings
for process, processed, processing
loosely-defined “food.”  The addiction
thus inserted offers time-released doom.

The hunger for more and more feces
off which to feed, the high-fructose
corn shit and partially hydrogenated
melena that work their insidious wonder —
we become walking peanut-butter cups
potato crisp ranch flavored, necrotic fog.

So it is with the larger structures
we are forced to inhabit, regardless
of attention to what we really need
to thrive in these temporary vessels.
The corporation hides its jealousy well.
The envy of the never corporeal.

For it is a soulless machine
in practice and in theory, hostile
to the bodies, minds, souls
that stoke its virtual fires
that massage its massive egos,
that nurture its insatiable hunger.

The vampire most ethical, even, hates
her need for blood that continues
her undead existence.  Each time fang
pierces skin (wondrous “khnt” sound made),
and the inhalation of life force fills,
she shrinks into a harder knot of pain.

Perhaps the wooden stakes of newly crafted
laws need to be refashioned, to reapply
a narrow definition of Person back to those
in possession of skin packets holding vital
organs together?  Can the Delawares
cut off at knees these tortured leviathans?

For an irony most stark does rear
its pimply, bright-eyed face
and points the way toward the state
of states strengthening to balance
out the freefloating, discorporated
greed manifesting with business suffixes.

We human bodies need to save
ourselves from our Frankenstein
creations.  Economic monsters
may have saved time and cut
close corners, but our existence
is a spiritual ruin, a land of waste products.

For the center Yeats observed
has not held for decades now.
Leveraged, bought-out, squeezed
of its margin, it is a useless
point in space demarcating
the maw of the abyss.

And it is our own expedient
selves that rendered it such,
and celebrated it as chic
postmodernity.  (I myself fell
guilty to this benumbing trend.)
We dislocate our souls for so little.

This careless disregard for our needs
to nourish the spiritualimentary canal
generated a harsh and devastating
response in equal measure, slick
spinning bottle guzzlers’ finger
pointing notwithstanding.

Ensuing fundamental ricochets
off Abrahamic walls and wires
barbed with exclusive cuntishness
(be it Christofascist or Islamitarian)
raise the hyperbole and terrify
the moderating influences.

Various Hitlers big and small
array themselves against other addicts
just as impoverished of human virtue
in their picking up of money-crack pipes
and P/E ratio syringes, mainlining LBOs.
What conflagration comes this way?

Neither McWorld nor Jihad invites
a thoughtful, feeling body into loving
and satisfying communion with existence.
Enforced points-of-view valuing
both mammon and vengeful gods at once
bespeak no life worth living.

The Holland-Puritan disconnect
of capitalist and Christian conquest
embodies itself in an America
of inconsistency and contradiction.  To many,
money is our best salvation
and put up the security fences already.

Our outgrown and outworn colony-mind,
that second childhood of blazing guns
in a Wild Middle East Desert
sitting atop oil wells and pathways
to pipelines, a Tajik Texas Tea Taco in the making,
needs a surrender into senility.  Yesterday.

Ours is a disease of isolation.
We jones for an unworkable way of life
that fast depletes the abundant world
and shrinks it to a constricted bundle.
Sickness wafts like charred remains
giving off noxious fumes in the gray night.

Like you and the rest, I must choose
to live my days in a place of bliss —
a constant selection of reprieve.
Too much attention gets paid
to papal-corporate culture of death-do-you-
want-fries-with-that communion wafer transactions.

The temptation to bolt courses through me.
But the willfulness is everywhere like the air.
Cantankerous hosts upon hosts revel
in the sewers they call home, while I yearn
to fly free and clear of this corporatalitarianism.
Stalin meets Peter Lynch by way of a twang.

We’ve invited the thing we most feared
from those bomb-scare days of schoolchildren
cowering under desks beyond the mushroom
genocide.  We’ve tossed the land of the free
into the shitcan with all the other discomforts.
Brain-Pea-Cheney-anderthals, Lynne and Dick.

A pity people acquiesce to mere certainty.
Trains may run on time, but then we can’t speak
our truest hearts.  Petrol has conquered love.
So it is today, this trained-monkey fearful age.
D-503, Ford Bless, on his Taylorist track to hell.
Do we go willingly to the One Business-Church-State?

A hope beyond hope flickers inside me.
Perhaps the stifling of our tongues
inside a patriotism not of our own assent
or devising may lead to a deepest discontent.
A fiery revolve into true connections across
the illusory chasms between Us and Them.

For the switch of a focus from difference
to commonality takes only a breath freely
expressed in that direction.  I must believe
in our earthly spirits, that the leap toward
one another will break these commercial shackles
and release us from the bondage of bond issues.

To let it begin with me, to value extant
human life and decision-making over ill-fitting
templates designed to absolve responsibility,
to allow that I’m not your God nor you mine,
to affirm that markets are not always the answer.
That is the firm ground on which to begin.

One size has never fit all.
One state has never had the requisite answers.
One god doesn’t fit the bill.
One economics fails the other-shoe test.
When all is reduced to a monad, then failure.
Single, lonely, onesome, lonesome.

A hybrid plain of both-and opportunities
is needed now.  Neither solely capitalist nor socialist,
neither Judeo-Christo-Muslim nor other,
but a hodgepodge of e pluribus unum et plurum.
The olio of approaches and beliefs collide
like sperm and ova in a spiritual womb called America.

O Rapture! The Disaster of Life!

My friend Shelly brought me to her reader.
Peter’s been interpreting Rider-Waite for years.
Five questions for ten bucks.
Well worth it (but I think he’s underearning)

Regarding my writing he said
that I should focus on issues of health, blatant
sexuality and the disaster of life.
(His apocryphal words, not mine.)

How interesting then, that I should live
inside the current iteration
of la malédiction chinois,
for a vital catastrophe does envelop us all.

Twin towers fall, airplanes crash,
elections get fixed and forgotten.
What a sweet Christian rapture this must cause
in Republikhnt states bloodied with ersatz rage.

As people disappear around me,
as my rights to express myself fall away,
the truth of vital catastrophe
rears its John-Ashcroft-Fugly head.

Yes, modern-day Savonarolas
will blaze their hot pokers through the culture
severing sinuous neck tendons
until their own heads end up on pikes.

The oceanic lessons of Neptune
swimming in blood-dark waters
may inspire new Torquemadas to persecute
persons of color and rainbow flags.

But Poseidon’s price is engulfment.
Scalia-type overreaching leads to cryptic
ground.  Fascism is a form of suicide,
really.  A self-made abbatoir for the terminally stupid.

Yes, we may be in the end times so foretold,
and so sought after in X-ian orgasmic lust.
The optimists amongst us may instead see
it as the apocalypse-end of organized religions.

I personally hope for the swan-song
of partially-hydrogenated sectual preferences,
inflicting cancer and untold social diseases
on our cultural bowels and circulation.

The alimentary canal is much like spirituality
each one of us has our own allergies
and nutritional needs.  Baptist butter may nourish
one, but send another into anaphylactic shock.

Church is but one spiritual food,
and in these times of social destruction
some would have it become the whole diet
regardless of its survival value.

I myself would rather play Zamyatin
and free myself from the regiment.
Ultimately, this way will prevail,
as the lesson of Sparta shows.

That draconian folk conquered all of Greece,
but proved themselves to be poor at statecraft.
Their military strivings died as Athens proved
what was apparent:  Flexibility and tolerance are assets.

As I try to negotiate this time of terror foreign
and terror corporate, I try to remember Sparta
and his blinkered vision that refused trust.
I’m only one person, and I can do only so much.

But Peter the reader is right about me.
I heal through my writing, by saying what I see.
And sometimes I get cock and butt together
for a blatant and fulsome union.

But it is in this trauma vibrant, this calamity
of breathing that results universally
in eternal slumber where I can find a perverse joy.
The laughter mixed with grief that releases.

Yes, defiance gets in my way, the sarcasm
erupting can evince pain in you as well as me.
These things must go somewhere though.
I believe that it’s all good.

“Every art work has a right to exist,”
a wiser one than I once said.  So I place
these words on paper, and form the ideas
for your review and your piqued interest.

The accidents will continue to happen,
the attacks may get closer, and perhaps
a suitcase will give birth to a miasma
that burns a hole in the Rocky Mountains.

Much of this is beyond my control.
My actions can only be local,
and will involve setting others free
one bizarre mind at a time.

So I turn to you, my reading friend.
I hope to appeal to your sense of the absurd,
that Taurean component grounded in humus
and standing erect on a clay promontory.

I am but a speck in this cosmos, as are you.
And so are those pathetic, doll-eyed powers
that be.  In the long run, we are better positioned
for a joyous life, abundant with service and spaciousness.

The disaster of life arrives on our doorsteps
no matter what.  Such rapturous discovery,
I know.  I’m sure I’m not done with pain.
But the long-view I hold can buoy me along.

So let the Gods have their altercations
and vent their heated passions upon us gerbils.
We may get together and spark a new direction
that brings us all forward in one gigantic wave.

I won’t give up hope, if you won’t.
Together we can survive this thing,
because I know I can’t all on my lonesome.
In the meantime, I shall trust that you are there.

You are holding these pages in your hand,
perhaps morbidly curious at meeting me.
And you would be right, I’m a bit crazy.
(In my world that is a positive attribute.)

We meet through the words on the page,
and they incite in you some reaction
(or maybe not).  No matter.  I’m by your side.
An ally for better or worse, in this conflagration.

O Rapture! The Disaster of Life
we embrace your necklace of skulls and entrails
and dance with that bony frame of dread and death.
All to be born again into this bounteous morass.

The wheel of life and demise spirals on
and you and I drive into a French sunset.
Exiled from our home in reality.
Eh, our imagination provides a better one.

We will read of American holocausts
in a press foreign to us, thankful we escaped
with the clothes on our back.  And once they are disembushed
the mass re-migration will begin.

America may one day be America again.
This side-trip through a Goebbels vision
carries a certain ominous, perhaps world-fatal
danger.  Self-fulfilling Revelation prophecy.

All you and I can do is hold each other.
Remind ourselves that freedom is a better way
than sheepledom, and that we should choose
when and where we’ll be on our knees.

If this gets us shunned by the woolies,
if this gets us thrown into a livid prison,
if this results in our untimely dooms,
so be it.  We are no one’s dollies.

O Rapture! O Disaster of Life!
the celebration of your wicked reverence
for each and every nobody to walk
this earth, we salute you!  Kiss us all, every one.



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