How to Feed the Hungry (A Lampoon)

Somewhere between madness And the mythical Age of Reason Is where we have our means of Communication blown to hell By this oversaturation of Social media diversion

Then this fusillade of death: Death of life and death of love Enterprising medicine feeds off The imaginary notion of healing Chemicals carried through tubes Or capsules or injections or pills That prolong life until the funds Run out and all that remains is The undertaker’s solemn nod To the inevitable side effect

Madness for real estate or Madness for sadistic effects Madness for personal power Madness for made birthright Madness for mineral rights Madness that jails people In open-air prisons and Industrialized gulags

There’re incidence of slave trade From taciturn Catholic laundries t' Trade ships out of Van Diemen’ To Taiwan Toy factories and West Virginia State Prisons

As we bear witness to this Who can claim that it isn’t A good reason to consume The well-to-do who do only What they do just for them- Selves in a notion to grow Profits 'n stock market Speculative larceny?

Ingest ‘em with Discernment: Cumin and Roasted Garlic

No, Not the Creative and Athletic Bourgeois Who keep it interesting. Not logical and benevolent Accountants who recognize a Track to negotiate the labyrinth Of bankster mumbo-jumbo… No. But blatant revenue accumulators In rotation: hands out for the grab Go ahead and stick a fork in 'em Vet ‘em on the spit; or tartare

bear-hug, messybear (m2b)

Irish Poem [March 22, 2014 at 11:29pm]

Reading an Irish poem: Just now ..ensconced on me another legislation 'at has nothing to do with pub- lic safety and everything t' do with grave-labor and revenues collection: Laws that ..condition

Bars due close@ 1:30 or 2:30 AM If it were really about public safety, bars 'd remain lit up all night so that th' drunks can hang-about and nurse their wee hour lot rather than swerv- ing home to whatever apologies or quiet desperation. Good for bar- tending jobs too, adding an- other shift. Let the mean

Streets be haunted only by those who ('re buzzed certainly, but) have a prospective ‘pick-up’ lover in the car with them, with their minds on gettin' where they’re going together making it far less likely they’re gonna be cross- ing what double yellow line. If anything, a one-hour (holy-hour) closing ..so that th' drunks 'd have t' take a walk outside in th' fresh air for an hour t' clear their heads or t' get some bloody exercise

Or "Hank" Bukowski-style with a 4- fisted alley fracas ..before salving lucky bruises with the new day's rounds ..or grab a quick coffee ..and a rinse before ambling loose into the workplace. Go on, break it down: Commonsense legislation

©2014

Butcher of Culloden • Jacobite stuck on a pike Looked down upon the mess Remains o' plundered masses end Said to his ghost bride, Tess, a confession: "Burn ‘em all down if we could do it over again. I’d appreciate it, love, if y' could reattach m' head Screw me on tight where my shoulders contend t' Ratchet off the hide o' the Duke of Cumberland. Pull a night raid on their goddamn field guns Leave ‘em with only their ruddy ranks, and Fancy pants, 'n girly swordplay, 'n whigs, 'n crooked muskets, ‘n pipes 'n drums. Then we’d see the muthufuckas shiver.”

Locked & Cocked October 13, 2013 at 8:04am [An amoral paradox. A pox On the civic constraints of 21st Century parenthood — In elder bad company o the Purveyors of pop warfare]

A young man’s journey Son of parent academics, Educators and musicians, Grew up in a house wall- To-wall with instruments Of music and botany; stability All manner of higher learning

To get out of a bad stretch o' Homies, and maybe to rebel From dad some, he joins th' Marines. Goes off proud and Feeling like a fervent pathway To a snowcapped mountain top

One tour patented in a hash mark He's a man now, visits home mighty Snowcapped mtn. moving mountains .... Signs on again for two more tours On that manmade quagmire metaphor Before th' big green machine releases Him to what remains of this life, liveli- Hood, and whatever resemblance of Civilization back home on th' block

Tooling unlicensed motorcycle Down familiar streets, now a Mountain moving mole hills Simple fact, there’s no one, No place, NObody at home: Who can understand his 2nd AND 3rd tours in Afghanistan?

Hanging on his ol’ bedroom wall Are thirteen scarves when in dad Walks…to see that Son is getting Aptly settled into his home digs

“What’re the bandannas, son?” Son looks through dad with a Million mile stare …and says, “Souvenirs.” (Not even a hint Of jocularity in his tone) Then He turns to the final remains of His sea bag, reaches in for what Is wrapped..in another ornate rag Unwrap a black 9mm 'n loaded clip Inserts the clip but does not cock it Then stands there in his own whirl. Gently wipes cold steel barrel, his Unadorned fingers curled into th’ U-turn he aught ‘ave been able To discern—in lieu of warfare

Dad put shaken hand on son’s head Gently ruffle brown hair (a moment Of tenderness between a father and A son, not so to rile his boy). Then as

Dad turns, upon leaving son his peace, Passing...through bedroom door frame Into the hall he’s seen again and again, A fleeting look back ...to admire his son

His little boy with the barrel of a 9mm Aimed up under his chin. Then lowered (With a heavy sigh) and ceremoniously

(Like folding a flag) wrapped back Up in a rococo “souvenir” rag

♫mb

Wonk of Irony (Zen-dō Score) January 28, 2015 at 2:15am • think i'm reading a wonk of irony in your reply. If so, that's certainly yours to convey, Qi. but if i recall that time- frame (altho we here were imbedded in big med protocol), you were expressing,

in a truly humble way, a depth o self-discipline that goes into knocking down hundreds o cues b4 deadlines; the daily physical training that went into it, etc. the mind paints a picture of

several flat screens, at least one giant one, ‘cross the face of an 88- key digital piano/synth,

cornucopia of instruments dotted around a center circle, dailies playing out a scene with whatever that entails in lieu o the final score, and a deft 'n salty ol' madman harvesting affecting notes and chords from the

cosmos unto the keys, argon eyes reflecting monitor florescence ' n inspiration for fuck- ing hours on end. I’d

know that it reads like a "great, great" body of effort. TV probably needs more of it. But it's subjective

messy (bear)

Abdomen, Adagio in B-flat minor

[October 2, 2013 at 5:28am]

Ever fall asleep at 11, wake up at 3? And that's that for sleep? ...2 hours 'till sunrise

What kinda Mischief can we get into?

(what t' do what t' do...)

Used t' jus slip easy down and Nuzzle m' face in warm abdomen Meditate on 'er tender perfection On a half-awake cloud nine,

Fall in-step with Her adagio 4/4 time,

Absorbed, Entire moment

Supple, summarized In her calming breathing Buoying on her lower belly Gentle rise 'n fall...until

(tick tock tick tock)

There b’gins t’ be a subtle Burble o rousing down 'ere Her murmur of awakening 'n her hands in my hair

O Sacred femininity in Pretty daybreak tones, Slight parting thighs, Soft girlie-girl purr

mb

The Courtesan Kamala

Needed to reread "Siddhartha" only after a countercultured and transcendentelephonic net.friend put the idea out there in a (probably) wholly unrelated post that I was lucky to have noticed, thought about for a few minutes, blurbed in peripheral of, then later thought: Yep. Got to dig that up and read some.

Got impatient and skipped ahead chapters—because I am reading another book, one that would be jibbed guilty comfort reading, and kept under wraps for the likely fun others would make of it, heh, but I confess: Jean Auel "The Valley of Horses", this 2nd time through is even better than the first time..and so what, bro, I welled up more this time because o the greater losses and fond memories felt when reached by whatever sustaining collective human connectivity. We can’t not value “pre-history’s” hunter/gatherer peoples, can’t just continue to buy into this mad hatter patriarchal ruse of dominion and slavery.

So I read/skimmed over the First Part then skipped to “Kamala” ’n dove all the way in ’n a ways out then as deep as Joey possible back in ’n then mostly out ’n then back so wholly in 'n in only after French kissing every blooming petal 'n swell…. The hopeless romantic warrior monk doofus in me commands such things in lieu o your cool outside distractions. And.. “With the Childlike People”, “Sansara”, “By the River” and "The Ferryman" (Blasted fuckin bastid snake!). Then “OM” and “Govinda”. I really did need that too. Nope, didn't know I needed it. Hadn't thought about it. Funny how friends indeed can persuade catharsis (...even if unintentionally, peripherally, from some spirited cache of humanities). Hey, so be it.

The last paragraphs of “Siddhartha” & “Cat’s Cradle” are like the Yin/Yang coin tossed spinning up ’n in a slow arc above the open hands o my own spiritual journey on this whacko marble in space. Only, blend a markedly more matriarchal bent into the alloy o the coin, as it was not well represented in either, except for the hours Siddhartha spent with the courtesan Kamala—the exclusion or erosion of it within the OM probably being a key reason why we’ve been so fucked as a people ’n planet for how many generations. That ’n the audacity o resolves that ultimately lead to the bombing of Hiroshima. (Whacko world of twisty man!)

It’s true we may've fallen into a fragment of cosmic quagmire as a people on a global scale thanks to the mothered father’s of Mordor monied malarky, and it may actually be too big (and weaponized and ALL goddamn audacious/rancorous) to fail, and that fuckin sucks. But if we’re to get blasted by the Mother Earthly lap of a megaton tsunami or else some sneaky or full-frontal smack down by the handmaidens o th’ dirty bastids in finest men’s wear, then let US be in the pursuit of, or finest recollection of, or in the midst of an epic afterglow of two as one as two in-the-moment awe of oneness with her Venerated erogenous energies—that’s not to discount sport and merry prankstering, nope—when death comes to leave a skid mark only after the fact to look back and cackle at his blasted goddamn bastid handy work.

Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face, Siddhartha's eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks. Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.

Looking at him, she said: "Now I see that your eyes have changed as well. They've become completely different. By what do I still recognize that you're Siddhartha? It's you, and it's not you."

In reference to: Siddhartha An Indian Tale by Hermann Hesse Siddhartha: siddha (achieved), artha (what was searched for)

P.S.

Could it be the sunspots Pressure on the atmosphere Make 'em war fo' mineral rights Or out-o-the-ordinary madness Beyond greed, no more no less