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Not for my ego

[‘take another little piece of my heart now baby; you know you got it if it makes you feel good"]

My door has never known

a lock nor key,

My door has never known

a lock nor key,

Twill always be free

to all who dream,

and any who wonder

how to combine

fire with the sea.

So many invitations have now become

trampled in the gutter scum;

as no one sought to wander

—without their armor casings—

through this

maze of passion-candles burning.

Nor did they care to undress

in compassion-veined corridors.

But I pay homage to Ms. Janis,

A soul carved deep with scars;

she gave away

pieces of her heart,

asking nothing in return.

She sang the Blues till the end

and died alone—

but, oh, mother,

she knew,

that so do we all.

And this I know

from the depths of my soul,

Southern Comfort

kept her company

as keening lyrics

burst with Empathy,

and no one sang her to the grave.

Oh, of the many that live,=2 0so few

ever quest their hearts.

Oh yea, they hold only

replicas in metal and diamonds cold,

hoarded tight within their chest,

for only in things do they trust.

Oh, yea, oh yea, oh yea.

They hope, covet, crave

and Pray—

to remain unscathed

as they whine and walk

the one and only journey

that so must we all,

the road upon which they fear to touch another

the road that batters, marks, and scars,

no matter how hard we stall.

Though jagged cuts cleave muscles,

Still, I fling open wide

the etched glass doors to my heart,

and, oh, you can be sure,

I say to everyone,

Come in, and in return, I’ll give you the sum

of all I am and all that I will become.

Some bold and some just curious

stepped inside my mind,

Oh, my, did we spin works of art,

Slide from coral-red, painted arcs

Climb galaxies of physics,

Float in glossy cobalt quarks,

free-fall in tingling canyon drops down synapses—

wrapped safely in these dancer arms,

leaping and spinning into the unknown…

But one by one they stopped,

before the central mystery….

Blinded by precious stones, they grabbed—

Hearts’ opals, unique in facet and swirl,

and flung the jagged chunks, now scattered before swine.

One by one they walked away—a piece of my heart in tow.

I hocked my wounds at peep shows,

and watched fissures erupt through my art.

With a laser in one hand, an IV in the other,

head bowed and body bruised,

I cauterized the leaking veins,

yet and always my heart renews…

Marked forever outside in,

Crying hearts,

Inscribed in ink,

Drip and Slide across my skin.

For I pay homage to Ms. Janis,

A soul mapped deep with scars;

she gave away pieces of her heart,

asking nothing in return.

She sang the Blues till the end

and died alone,

but, oh, mother,

she knew,

that so do we all.

And this I know,

from the depths of my soul,

Southern Comfort

kept her company

as keening lyrics

burst with Empathy,

and no one sang her to the grave.

Oh, of the many that live, so few

ever quest their hearts.

Oh yea, they hold only

replicas in metal and diamonds cold

hoarded tight within their chest,

for only in things do they trust.

Oh, yea, oh yea, oh yea.

They hope, covet, crave

and Pray—

to remain unscathed

as they whine and walk

the one and only journey

that we must all,

the road upon which they fear to touch another

the road that batters, marks, and scars,

no matter how hard we stall.

So I pay homage to Ms. Janis,

And follow in her path.

My soul is gouged deep with wounds,

Still, away I give pieces of my heart

And ask nothing in return.

I’ll dance the Blues till the end;

I’ll die alone,

but, oh, mother, I know,

that so do we all.

And this I know

from the depths of my soul,

seeds of dance

keep me company

as keening words

jolt with Empathy

and no one dances me to the grave.

Yes, seeds of dance

keep me company

as keening words

jolt with Empathy

and no one dances me to the grave.

The Hunger Site

Ego Manifesto

Ego Manifesto

Appetites….grow….

Grow…. &….Swell—

till they spllliittit

atoms spinning

with desire.

mushrooming egos,

fiber-optically connecting

the world,

greedily

seizing

at

Every

Pumping

Pulsing

Craving,

(minted-dollar-verdant-green),

dusting off even the dullest chimera,

And Lo,

Behold,

Halcyon dreams to

gilded Gimcrack turn,

and cockaignes continually heave—

Broadcasting Nightly,

Daily:

Analog,

Digital,

Virtual,

MySpace, MyFace

[MyReality, YourReality]—

MYBlog, YourBlog

YouTube, BoobTube

9,999 channels—

Can’t find

One

Crooning

Your Delusions?

Then make your own—

Dreams Double-Bubble, Thwart, Extort, Shriek, and Reek

Blogfog,

Slithering through the wire-waves, Meming across the air-waves

And you too can

Aspire to

Empire,

Replicating

posters photos voices videos

and

Grab for that brain-washed, culturally God-promised 15 minutes of fame:

Blogster, reality-sphere, apprentice-crawl, designer-discovered, chef-picked…

And to hell with everyone else on the

Stinking,

Sinking

Ship.

Modern Entertainment

Modern Entertainment

On weekends, the people get so bored

With the athletes paid to parade before us

There: the hockey rink, the basketball court, the arena

There, the players prepare to battle for our pleasure.

Businessmen become ringside heroes

and prize bimbos strut as cheerleaders.

Who can say of what they’re made

that the testosterone ones turn and bray,

then, suddenly, they’ve swelled, bloodied and battered.

Who can say of what they dream,

those entertainers now drowned in the inflamed screams

spewed from the mouths of the multitudes—

Hurray!

On Sundays the athletes get so bored

When required to suffer for us.

They line up for their cortisone boosts

while mobs everywhere chant for revenge,

and when results bequeath only broken bones,

the mobs cry out with disgruntled groans:

A signal for businessmen to display Machismo

And use women to echo their punching blows.

Every day we news whores get so bored

waiting for the other to drop dead for us

The bombs will reign down and the mob will drool

The blood will pour and bodies stack up—

Hurray! Hurray!

Then the businessmen become champions,

and in triumph, we all scream and shout,

praising the necessary assault.

And when those in the way finally fell

Did not the victims dream of some hell

Where war mongers and worn-out soldiers still burn

Or perhaps with their last breaths

Would the scapegoats not pardon us their deaths

Knowing what we did—or did not do—

At:

the Crusades—Hurray!

Wounded Knee—Hurray!

Versailles—Hurray!

Iwo Jima—Hurray!

Hiroshima—Hurray!

Saigon

The Killing Fields

Rwanda

South America

Afghanistan

Iraq

Gaza!

Special thanks to Jaques Brell’s song “The Bulls”

and to Picasso for Guernica

When a Man Loves a Man

Over the past decade, one of the most divisive issues in American culture has been same sex marriage. There are many legal, religious, historical, psychological, and societal ramifications to this debate. Ultimately, however, this all comes down to a single catalyst: what happens in the United States when a man loves a man or a woman loves a woman?

Fibroid Pipes

Her doorbell works. Her phone works. Her heat works. Her plumbing works; it aspirates, wheezes, and thwoofes—the galvanized copper pipes sweat blood. Perfectly natural, irony-red blood, bleeding and osmosing through arterial, moil-aged disintegrating pipes worldwide. It’s the way the world works. People never notice, no, never notice that the rust-crust layers ironically rich are not rust and the acrid metal smell is blood-swaddled Pipes, radiating moldy, sour-spore cheese ….

• 
  

young Chinese village girls, feet-bound to the family farm, brother-beaten, birth to death, minds bandage-wrapped tied to lovingly hand feed hungry baby silk worms [their own children dumped in the closest city’s gutters] and coax forth threads for hand-dying.

• 
  

A [jaundiced yellow] flower blossom 100% woven silk jacket: on sale at Dillards now: $185.95, last year’s style…..

• 
  

She stops breathing as she peels stinking saffron blood-stained bandages from the sink’s clogged throat, remnants of the blood-soaked, urine stained sheets her AIDS-riddled lover, Patrick, had lain on? Had they not burned long ago along with his body? His blood, her love, their mildewed memories—fibroid filaments—chaining, webbing, metastasizing through her Pipes, into the city’s and….

• 
  

boys in the Sam Yang Vietnam Nike factory make $1.60 a day, but it is below subsistence. They starve, body fat melting into the shoe’s rubber souls-soles worth $159.99 to a suburban kid in upper state New York, the fat globules greasing just the right amount of glide quality [with friendly service provided by Pakistan, India, Korea….]. And the workers’ life-giving blood dripped down the factory drain to the sewage system supplying irrigation on the local rice farms exporting grain feeding the fat in the land of Milk and Honey and Big Rock Candy Mountain…..

• 
  

In deathly dark dank recesses under her bed lie detritus dregs of denatured humanity: fingernail clippings, hair threads, bone chips, clinging to dust balls quivering in the far corners blown hither and thither with the hot, sweat-filled air fueled and forged from furnaces in the meatpacking, food processing, garment-skin-stitching interment-immigrant factories—the heartbeat of the industrial North….

• 
  

boiled in vats of recycled residue, remnants, and relics swept up with sliced, diced, slivered and shivered phalanges —shucked of skivvies, dead cells clinging, modestly, to gouged wounds, stripped skin sent knuckle-dusted to the shop floors, face-mangled scabs scrubbed into sloshing buckets, the proceeds slung into the food seasoned with blood in the hum, suck, and thump-in-the-night-pumps of Upton Sinclair’s Chicago Jungle exposed and bzzz shock discarded on the gov-controlled-abort.-history dump. Eraser heads sweep the streets clean for the flip, flop, flip, flap, flap of Mexican-made industry garments Clinton-pimped by way of NAFTA, signed, sealed, delivered slave labor, so you can have Calvin-baby-Klein and Ralphy boy Lauren’s designer jeans—back at you sexy boys and girls for those oh-so stylin’ gilt guile leach-lusting topstitching on white slim-trim stretch jeans [finger them in the store; buy them off the Internet]: only $325, stitched-strung by Rosa Maria Martinez, a Maquiladora worker paid 60 cents an hour…..

• 
  

‘Tis the Season to be givin’ …. Addicted shopper sends her hand-made, hand-wrapped, rice paper lining packed via Fancy Asian Gourmet, found online—just: type, click, link click, enter, click, shopping cart, compare site, best quality from computer to door—flick, flick hit, print. Contents: four-noodle sampler with five mini-garnish sauces all golden glow bowed, hand-looped. Imported from Vietnam: only $52. A foot stomping, deliriously demented plugged-in buying, linked-in, your pay pal, all season bow-tied anytime. Factory. Billboard. Magazine ad targeted to your zip code. TV commercial made just for your demographic. Internet wired in, light popping, electric pulsing, twittering savory image, luscious words, [insidious ideas…] vindicating props-to-gander-at. To expel the peanut packed, monstrous fibrous-horde, she slams it on the knobbly faucet and—flip, switch, link, gurgle, google—all the Connecting PiPes under- over-ground, intertwining, intersecting time/space meshing, spew forth stocking stuffers rotted rats’ tails, crushed snails, diseased cells and boys toys cheap and neat to please and squeeze wasted, crumpled bodies into slag for the cement blocks, the hard- and soft-ware, the mixed and mashed pixels—all—the market builds on—and strings with bulbous lights blinking out the crushed american dreams cycling and recycling from house to job to hyway and byway [paved, plumbed, and broadcast], bursting forth, Pipe-puking, contaminating gifts for the Holidays, Holly LollyPop Days, the Season’s Greetings, Xmus, Xmax, Holy Days erected on:

• 
  

Solstice Days, grow and reap days, nature cycling days, Dying/Rising Gods Days

The days of Life, Love, Birth, Death coursing/pulsing with our blood,

sacred blood,

forever tainted blood,

usurped blood

dripping from one-upon-a-cross devaluing human blood,

bought and sold blood,

another product banked on to spout Profit Pipes.

• 
  

Circa 1985

Blood Banks tubing people with HIV-infected blood—cheaper than screening. Blood money speaking—louder than shouts, protests, and dying spillage from AIDS victims. Infection odds from transfusion: 1 in 487.

• 
  

And Reagan’s Regime, with God on their side, declared AIDS a gay disease, wages of sin. He killed funding. When a rich, morally pure, woman received the gift of death—tainted blood—the lawsuit pressured banks to screen. The White House, cloaked eight years in Christmas white, played Silent Night. That December, her lover Patrick, not rich, unknown, one of many, died, phlegm choked in winding sheets, amid the thousands unwinding ever since. The cause: a truly priceless gift that Christmas didn’t bring. And the Band Played On; blood bloomed dead red and pus ran sallow thick. There was no season for giving—or forgiving. Blood in the streets of America, blood in the streets of Africa. And Christmas, black, red recurring season of cooked books, layoffs, downsizing, and Capitalist Faith, came and went, along with many more just like them.

• 
  

Circa 1994

FDA claims blood-bank HIV testing not cost effective. Not mandatory. Consumers on the FDA board? How ridiculous! Repeat after me:

Econ 101, Reaganomics

Trust the market, the market, the market.

Like God, like God, like God.

Invisible, Invisible, Invisible.

Have Faith, Have Faith, Have Faith.

Greenspan, Greenspan, Greenspan.

Ayn Rand, Ayn Rand, Ayn Rand

Bang! Market decision: House rules; you, unknowingly, gamble with your life. Three dollars. The cost antigen testing would add to a unit of blood. Trust the Red Cross? Don’t bet on it. Trust the Association of Blood Banking Industry? Wouldn’t bet on it. Trust the CDC’s calculations more cases are on the way, bank on it. Infection odds from transfusion: 1 in 11,111.

• 
  

Circa 2008

The Pipes still rumble, the blood still pours, the wires hum, and all is well in our fantasy world as Poof, a make-believe P.E.A.C.E prize, magically minted in the mind of a [radical right] make-believe compassionate evangelical preacher of a mega-grossing, mega-church, socially tuned to the season of pretend concocts an award for P.E.A.C.E. that isn’t for PEACE: Rev. Rick Warren sought to give what no one could to Georgie Porgie W.

• 
  

‘Tis a medal whose initials stand for: Plant churches; Equip servant leaders; Assist [not alleviate?] the poor; Care [not cure?] for the sick; and Educate the next generation [in his oh-so-make-no-mistake-about-it Evangelical, anti-gay, anti-choice, anti-any female who does not submit in everything to her husband, everyone but those who believe as I do are going to hell literal interpretation of the Bible, evolution doesn’t exist Religion],. ‘Tis given for global work in a/the/one/any/maybe: pandemic diseases, extreme poverty, illiteracy, self-centered leadership and/or spiritual emptiness to his friend and ally, who he frequently advised but never thought saying torture not a Christian idea. Now why is that? For as an Evangelical, evil-doers must be punished and his nonnegotiable issues: abortion, stem-cell research, gay marriage, cloning and euthanasia. And while thousands of evangelicals got a fast-track email down the pipe and into the box reminder just in time for the 2004 Bush re-election bid, the rest of us got the PR package.

• 
  

‘Tis for AIDS Help [?!]. Note: work on AIDS in Africa, not the US. [I’ll give you a hint in case you didn’t get it already: Africa, ‘cause it’s ah, maybe ah, a heterosexual problem there—oh, and of course, the intertwining of ooh, la la, $, power, insemination and dissemination for all on the gravy planes and lightening news Flash! of anti-choice, ‘tis awarded to, Drumrolllllll, sliding trumpet, clash cymbal, hit spotlight: shucks, two-war, economic collapse, let’s eat cake while people die in Katrina, and so much more—Bush. Ah, gosh, not me, he smirked, in his sleek, high- thread count, fine weave linen, not on sale—ever—suit.

• 
  

The deed: blood money for Pipe-lining generic drugs to Africa, perhaps saving two million. The cost/gain ratio: blocking family planning, banning handing out or talk of condoms, forbidding prevention education, indoctrinating religious guilt, disregarding nutrition, side-effects, poverty, female emancipation from rape and prostitution in the spread of AIDS A gift of damning stupor, ignoring that African nations funding for education and prevention have lower infection rates. A gift of Christian Faith: Belief without evidence in what is told by one who speaks without knowledge, of things without parallel. And a nice tidy side-line for Rev. Warren: co-opting the Anglican schism supporting the Nigerian Anglican bishop in anti-gay laws “mak[ing] it illegal for gay men and lesbians to form organizations, read gay literature or eat together in a restaurant” and to withdraw from the Anglican church over including gays. But, as he also says, he supports equal rights for gays, just not marriage [Do I have a hearing problem? Have my lines got crossed? But no, one set runs on money and the other on sweat.] And on Dancer and Prancer and Doner and Blitzen—as Warren with new-found dollars to spend, sped quickly to Virginia, Rwanda, and Nigeria….oh, not for AIDS sufferers, but for rebelling Anglican-hating gays.

• 
  

Alas, again ‘tis the season for bloodshed as wars rage, bashing minorities grows and ads accuse victims of the cause. Not satisfied with Christ’s blood, with a faith founded on blood—stolen pagan blood—lusting with vampiric dreams of everlasting life. O’ yea worship death in the mire of blood-covered swords, crusaders and avengers, frothing anger and hate. Rev. Warren grins and he grins, turns and he turns, unwinding the same incestuous, corrupt linen sown with a hidden [malignant] blossoming pattern: not in the fancy lizard suits of a Falwell or a Robertson, but the flowery sugary-cane fields, pigment-dyed, Old Testament Red, 100% cotton fiber, still standing, still marching, still spitting in the blood of others, looking for his Purpose Driven Empire, proclaiming Christianity as the future for Africa, Asia, and Latin America. Ancient blood, ancient stink of rusted iron strings whipping up cries for blood—others blood—gays, non-evangelicals, humanists, feminists: selected sinners seen through the stye burning in his God’s eye.

• 
  

‘Tis not for me.

I will celebrate the Solstice—

Seasonal

Sacred

Truth.…

Mystery

spinning in the

moon and the sun

and the winter,

the changing summer heat,

in the riddle of the

Sphinx,

in the earth revolving

and Galileo Gazing,

Searching the heart

of the heavens:

to

know.

Symbolized in the inexorable dying/rising gods of imagination. And the momentary, fragile spark of our little lives against the scintillating background of stardust to which we will return—dust to dust, ashes to ashes……. Recycled Be. ‘Tis that Season, the eternal season of understanding the suffering of every human’s blood in this blood-drenched world in which I will commingle my own. And not one dollar will I mete out to a season of bloodshed and plunder.

Upton Sinclair, The Jungle

Randy Shilts, And the Band Played On

Bush award: http://thinkprogress.org/2008/12/01/bush-peace/

Ambroise Bierce definition of Faith

The Anglican Church Integrity site

The Guardian

Timothy Kincaid

My 2 Cents Worth

CNN