Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head

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  Visions of Karlsputin Frogmarching in My Head 

 

   I long for someone in the Administration to out or plame Karlsputin Rove as the mastermind of pushpolling in Texas to insinuate that Gov. Ann Richards was a lesbian; and in the South Carolina primaries to say Mr. McCain was the father of a ‘colored baby’; and also past disgrace to disgusting having destroyed Max Cleland’s career by suggesting that he was ‘soft on Saddam Hussein’ with $200,000 of advertising in Georgia.

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

   Mr. Rove is an official with zero scruple – there is no scruple or ethical pebble in his shoe. Of course I suppose the reason why Karlsputin Rove couldn’t walk in Mr. Cleland’s moccasins is because Mr. Cleland who did go to <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Vietnam got both his legs blown off in combat and can’t wear moccasins any more. 

 

   You might object hither & yon that my acid remarks about Mr. Rove are ad hominem— but that would assume he was hominem rather lizardem. Anyone who euphemizes dead children as ‘collateral damage’ is lizardem to me.

 

I’m going to sleep with visions of Karlsputin frogmarching in my head. I  long to spring from my bed to see what is the matter. Away to the CNN I fly like a flash, I clik the remote and throw up the sash. And finally my teeth end their 5-year gnash, For Karlsputin’s being frogmarched Across the White House Grass.

 

Sometimes hallucination get you through the night . . . America’s dark night of the soul. 

 

 

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Planet Asylum .. hissing disbelief

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<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />planet asylum 

hissing disbelief .. rabbit:blackhole help!

    I’ve been toying with the notion that Ï might be going a tad mad? Staring at Goats? Overwork? Not enough oxygen down the rabbit:blackhole? Too much heat on my melon? Forget that noise. I am as sane as a water jug. I am as sane and placid and sturdy as a plain apple-green water jug. I am very sane — and ëxtrëmëly naïve.

    What I’m trying to say if I could figure out a way to say it is that you & me are boringly normal, reassuringly ordinary and familiar rather like a pair of comfy old slippers. Thêse Lîzard people, on the other hand, are hurricane insane, teeth-chatteringly, eyes-bulgingly, skin-crawlingly insane, Category 5 when all the roofs blow off. They are disguised as human beings. They are not. This is what trips you up, takes you in.

    Where to start on today’s Lîzard Exposé? Steinbeck, I suppose. I had this starry-eyed notion that art is cathartic, that artists might be brutish, nasty of word and of plot to make an icepick point or two, but that in actual life, they are at least bittersweet and rather roly-poly of soul, like me.When I found that Steinbeck had been writing LBJ to suggest even more excellent ways of maiming the enemy, I quailed. It’s 1984-&-½ — the rats are chewing off your face.

    These particular fricots are from the July 2005 Harper’s Readings, passim pp.13-28. (Do subscribe to Harper’s – it’s not a Rock of <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Gibraltar, there’s no ground left; but it is a raft in the seething Sea of Crazy.)      

    In the Galactic Councils when they consider lifting the Cosmic Quarantine of the Planet Asylum(as we are known), the Wise Old Turtle from Antares always — rather wistfully actually, he always longs for redemption – says one word, “napalm,” and they pass onto the next agenda item. Mr. Steinbeck, says LBJ to McNamara, writes him “from time to time . . . with an imaginative flair for war and its weaponry.” Oh good, that’s what that lambent gift, the imagination has been given us for: “What I suggest is a napalm grenade packed in a heavy plastic sphere the exact size and weight of a baseball.” A napalm grenade. “There isn’t an American boy over thirteen who can’t peg a baseball from infield to homeplate with accuracy. And a grown man with sandlot experience can do much better. It is the natural weapon for Americans.” He proprietarily and proudly dubs the napalm grenade, “the Steinbeck super ball.” Let’s ‘peg’ some napalm. I swear to gods, my synapses can’t take this boschian¹ stuff.

    I’m not telling you this to torment your reeling mind so much as to remind you to rejoice in your relative normality. I may be eccentricky, but I don’t even think about pegging napalm grenades, so in this equation I can be considered wise enough to say a thing or two.

   Ǿ So let’s proceed down the rabbit:blackhole of Malice in Wonderland.  Paraphrasedly, some European military intelligence reports say that some American physicians in Iraq are “extracting human organs from the dead and wounded. … The Europeans have noticed the absence of organs from the cadavers dealt with by Americans and have reported to their commanders, who instructed them to maintain silence and to avoid discussion of the subject due to its gravity.” The absence of organs from the cadavers. “Iraqi guides to dead and critically injured individuals are paid $40 for every usable kidney and $25 for an eye.” As a commentator remarked, “Y’might as well save them American rich people. A life is a life.”

  Ǿ From Kuttab al-Battar, a jihadist online manual, Exercise 3. “Suppose you are with the mujahedeen in the Philippines, and you are in the jungle, starving, with nothing to eat. You see a bright, colorful frog. Will you feel forced to eat this frog? Or will you waive this appetizing meal:)? Mention why it is possible – or impossible—to eat this frog. Answer: This frog cannot be eaten. Colorful frogs and very big frogs hiding on dry land are poisonous and must not be eaten. If you eat it, you will go to hell:). Better to stay thirsty than to drink poison only to wish your thirst and yourself farewell:).” These are the first smiley faces I have ever allowed out of my typewriter – have the courage of your convictions I say, don’t try to soften the blow – but the quirk of their being used here is so sublime that I couldn’t edit them out.

  Ǿ From Kathmandu, Nepal where unrest is ratcheting up,  “Clean socks command respect in our society, for there are very few indices by which we can measure prestige. The people living in impoverished districts cannot afford socks. They are a heavenly luxury.” Socks are a heavenly luxury and us oft-spoiled Amuricans ought remember that.

  Ǿ  Another tidbit mentions Wagner saying in essence that “the pursuit of power destroys love and leads to degradation and downfall.”  This relates to Mr. Griffin who exposes 9/11 complicities saying that we usually misquote the “Power tends to corrupt; absolute power corrupts absolutely.” The ‘tends to’ is deliberately missing from the second clause.

   Ǿ Now, my favorite soupcon from this Readings Section of Harpers July 2005. 68 million Chinese people who belong to the Communist party were asked to reflect on their short and strong comings online. (Hmmm, an interesting idea in a, er ah, democracy, no whoops I mean a communist country.) There are two I want to tell you, the second of which I’ll do a whole article on soon.

   § “I don’t take the pain of the people to heart. I don’t try to feel the will of the people. In March a migrant from the Three Gorges area asked me to give him a special permit to recycle scrap metal. Even though he had already come to see me four times, I still used all sorts of excuses to get rid of him. My determination to serve the people wholeheartedly was not strong enough.”

   § “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Communism.”

   I would only change a single word: “I found it more practical to be humane, to give my staff higher income and benefits, and to solve their problems with housing, employment, schooling, and health care, than to talk about the usefulness of Democracy.”


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¹ Hieronymous Bosch .. see pogblog's Glossary (left sidebar) and clik for illustrative pict.
 
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Woman Who Stares at George Bush Instead Of At Goats

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Note: This piece was written before the writer read Jon Ronson's book, Men Who Stare at Goats. I'd read this first if I were you, then pogblog's review of his terrific book. 

 

Note: Please check pogblog’s Glossary (Topics, Main Page) for unfamiliar words or phrases. 

 

The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Militant Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn, Be Gone ..

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />Chapter 7 

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

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¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.

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Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson .. pogblog Review

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The Men Who Stare At Goats by Jon Ronson .. pogblog Review  

 

     Forget the chilling (and thrilling) labyrinths of how the supposedly orderly spiral-helix of History’s DNA mutates its now almost perfectly insane Self, Jon Ronson writes with such delicious ease that you’d be happy to read him writing about people who collect used dishwater or who read the metropolitan phonebook for fun. Ronson has the Welsh gift of writing as if words were his hemoglobin.

   But then there’s the rabbit-blackhole: <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />Alice’s dream transmogrified into nightmare. Welcome to World Weird. People at the echelons who cocktail and pretzel with the President ‘drop’ de-bleated goats as a serious, if delirious, part of America’s arsenal for Global Domination.

   Ronson can slide into the bubbles of other people’s madness and keep our bearings for us. Think of it as the Ricocheting Bullet Ride. You have to be willing to unmoor your mind from the quaint roller-coaster safety of cars on tracks. With Ronson as your quite cheerful if bemused guide to the sursurreal, you fasten yourself dr.strangeloveily to the careening bullet and discover the meaning of ricochet from the inside out.

   You discover that, at higher levels, people aren’t drunk with power, they’re on acid with power. It’s quicksand and quicksilver where you walk, where land was – leave hold of reason. It becomes clear that sanity is an impediment to reaching higher office or rank. You learn that the basic ‘staring at goats with intent to kill gig’ fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios.

   Ronson both sherlocks and watsons. He has a combination of a keen, unsentimental cunning with a good-natured watsony naïveté, an earnest charm that bumbles him into discovery where his icepick sherlock eye can outwit the hidden and forbidden crimes of the moriarty imagination of our Ruling Classes.

  You’ll come to trust as well as admire Jon Ronson for his nerve, verbal verve, and especially for his damned doggèd persistence. And you’ll come to like the several of the many dangerous zanies/insanies he clearly likes in spite of themselves.

       If you’ve never seen the Cabinet of Dr. Caligari that still brilliant first film surreal anthem from 1919, it’s on DVD. It’ll give you an molecular inoculation of surreal so you’ll get less queasy at the random strobings of light and shadow, the pastiching of realities that keep disorienting your once assumed equilibrium. Hamster quelling &/or killing; goat 17; mk ultra & Artichoke; an enemy’s photo voodooily kept in your shoe (This one works pretty well actually); a naked man on a leash; Infrasound and the Race-Specific StinkBomb; slo-mo electro-convulsive-Purple Barney-song-shock. Like the banality of evil Arendt capsulized, this cartoon creepingly and creepily grows very sinister and deadly too. Too bad The Game has to murder and maim.

   It’s all unbearably funny because high-pitched hysterical laughter is finally the only sane response to such lethal lunacy. You will come off your Ricocheting Bullet Ride deeply unsettled, knowing that your imagination is insufficient to comprehending reality as it unhingedly is. I have no clue how to assimilate this new knowledge yet, but I realize I had a need to know. Ronson bravely unearths that the Deck we’re playing the Game of Life with has far more jokers wild than we could have thought. And Truth may be spelled Rutth or Urtth – don’t be fooled by what you thought you knew yesterday.

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

………….<^>……………..

It’s an honor to have you visit pogblog. Do comment.<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” />

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Check pogblog’s Glossary for brave & nefarious words.

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ffwofw

..

the pro-peace world begins today with you

………….<^>…………….

Design of Dissent: Curb Your God, &c

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   On PBS’s Now, they had on Milton Glaser who’s collected a book called the Design of Dissent http://www.pbs.org/now/arts/designofdissent.html.

  There is a teeshirt with a ‘city sign’ on it saying Curb Your God, a teeshirt I’d love to own.

   And the image that most haunted me – you see a close up of about an octave of a piano keyboard all the sharps & flats are missing, and where the word Steinway would be and in the same font as that iconic word, it says Racism. Amazing image.  

    The most ice-tooth-picky and fun is a small old-style campaign button all red with lettering saying Rather Dead Than Red (a phrase fashionable in the Cold War, and for those of us in the Blue States having an ironic resurgence . . .).

 

Pavlov's dog & the “New Pearl Harbor”

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    I’m worried that the pavlov’s-doggism — ‘beat the 9/11, “New-Pearl-Harbor” fear-drum’ and we’ll roll over for more narrowing of rights and stupid foreign wars and $14,000 a minute being spent on the fantasy Missile Nonsense — is wearing off in the citizenry. We aren’t drooling on cue and wagging our tails in time to the Star-Spangled Banner. The ied’s red glare and the rocket-propelled grenades bursting in air are smelling a tad too acrid for us to ignore even tho we aren’t allowed to view the star-spangled-banner-draped coffins forever silent of song.
     The “New Pearl Harbor” vaccination of fear is wearing off; I dread they will think we require a booster-dose in the ides of July or of August. Before or after the Supreme Court confirmation fight? What’s your guesstimate?

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“New Pearl Harbor” — see David Ray Griffin, about whom more anon.
fff   

The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead of At Goats

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Note: Please check pogblog’s Glossary (Topics, Main Page) for unfamiliar words or phrases. 

 

The Woman Who Stares at GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats .. A Radical Pacifist’s State of the Union address <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />. . . ToadSpawn Ch 7

 

<?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

    There is actually (reality, actuality; matter of fact, sober reality; truth &c; stubborn fact, hard fact; not a dream &c; no joke; be the case; occur &c; extant; afloat, afoot, prevalent; undestroyed; indeed; ipso facto) a military occult cadre in America who are paid by us taxpayers to stare at goats with intent to kill.¹  A very occult project this, so secret in fact that you might say it’s oc:oc:occult. The rest of this report is both interpretative and factual, but this basic staring-at-goats-gig fact exists on the Planet you walk on and upon which you eat your Cheerios. Tremble and be afraid, very afraid – you’re paying for these people, and they are loose.

    You are paying them enough to play golf more than once a week at Pebble Beach ($700 per round, not counting tipping the caddy), the most beautifullest golf course on the planet, teal-colored ocean views; white pelicans skimming the combers; velvety Bermuda-grass greens with duffer-flattering pin-placements; scrotum-tightening pleasure oiled in reminiscence by much Jack Daniels, a real guy’s drink. A real guy who spends his time when he’s not golfing or servicing the trophy wife staring at goats with intent to kill.

    Now, the goats’ friendly bleats have been surgically excised because it’s hard to concentrate on the glaring-to-murder a goat cheerfully bleating for a scratch behind the ears or a nice handful of molassesy grain (which the goats who aren’t reaped by the grim gazes are given by their sweet Keepers at night.)

    How bizarre the goats must find our species – they get death stares for 8 hours (It’s a job for the humans) while they mill, baffled, bleating earnest silence. Then at 5pm, the Starers put their uniform jackets (made in China) back on and button up the brassette buttons. At which point the tender and fondling and sweet-whispering Tenders arrive to whisk away the corpses and to give the remaining goats honeyed grain and alfalfa hay and cool cool water. What could a goat philosopher make of it all?

    I don’t decry psychic powers – I have quite a few of my own.

    But, dear reader, it never occurred to me not once to just stare at the Lizard-in-Chief, Mr. Bush, until – until boils do us part. Yeah, friend, as many eyes and teeth as George owes for, I just can’t do death. But if boils is good enough for God to job Job with, they’re good enough for me to do unto George. Amen and hallelujah, brother.

     I wish there was a Boils R Us store nearby so I wouldn’t have to work so hard at this boils thing. On my groaning plate, I’ve already got daily praying for The Rapture to occur – win-win, they’re happy to go, I’m happy they’re gone, hip hip hullabaloo. (My friend, Fuerta, says pilots should have to sign a sworn statement that they are not Rapture-Ready – suddenly pilotless² planes are a clear hazard.) Adding this boils-staring voodoo at our Scaly Leader is gonna seriously cut into my sloth, snack, and siesta time.

   Now, I only need two more of you with boils-erupting baleful gazes to join up so we can triangulate Mr. Bush with boils-wielding ridicule, BWR – if you ain’t got an acronym, what kind of weapons system are you really? FMD, for instance, Fantasy Missile Defense at $14,000 per minute. Now there’s a truly ridiculous notion that no one is sufficiently squawking about. How can citizens of a sane nation allow $14,000 per minute to be spent on a Fantasy Missile so-called Defense while we are paying fellow citizens $5.15 per hour, $206 a week – you live on that, pilgrim.

     I remember the supercilious William Buckley on Larry King a decade ago intoning in his inimitable pontifical mannered manner, “Wull, Larry, you ask that [African, Indonesian; Peruvian; Alabamian] peasant if they wouldn’t rather have that 35¢ an hour?” Wull, yes, Bill, while you’re silver-forking down your lobster thermidor — over nothing, the pesky starving will choose 35¢ an hour. But that’s the wrong question, Bill baby. The question is how would you like 35¢ an hour? That’s how you sort the ‘we are all humans of equal worth’ equation; that’s the ethical calculus – prince and pauper – I would trade places with you right now. I have sufficient courage of my pompously pontificated convictions that I, William F. Buckley Jr, would trade places with you right now. Justice is blindfolded and can’t tell you from this happy happy poor person reveling in the 35¢ an hour you’re so magnanimously offering, no doubt with a daily watermelon bonus and a free turkey at Christmas. The Knights of Ridicule can set a basic Boils Team on you too, Bill.

    My Martian philosopher-journalist friend, DanGero, from the South Mars Gazette, a cosblog linked to pogblog, said his 20 years in a human suit observing homo notso sapiens undercover was an assignment of hadal delight and of a five recent years revulsion so shuddering that Martian oneiro-shamans feared for his recovery of equilibrium and equanimity.

     “Part of your species is pleasant, even jolly, fun, quite generous. The 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings Who Purport to Lead You are so empathy- and agog-impaired that my Martian friends who’ve never visited your Planet have voted for a 100% Quarantine of your planet’s sentient effluvium from cosmic councils; cosmic trade routes; from cosmic museums; cosmic libraries, the whole Big Shebang.

    “’How can they treat their fellow conscious beings so scummily?’ ask my Martian friends.

    “On Mars we have an ancient story of a unicorn whose hide is the shimmering colors of the rainbow. Where our unicorn passes, there is music in the air. And where her golden hooves fall, the grasses are not bruised.

   “It is with musical gentleness we are asked to treat our fellow creatures. The best way I could translate it perhaps for you Earthlings is Music unto others as you would have them music unto you.

   “On Mars we hear all the songs —  the stone’s song, the butterfly’s minuet, the sonnet of your soul. On Mars, your worth is weighed in the number of jokes you’ve invented.

    “We are not aura-blind as most of you Earthlings are. We see or grok the aurora borealis of your being as it plays its concertos of actions and reactions, its woven songs. We love the ambush of practical jokes and the fierce dueling of satires.

      “Your very real harshness to one another, however, your deafness to the other’s life song are so alien to us that most of us did ratify the Quarantine.”         

    When I look at DanGero, I hear him mostly in the tangerines and hyacinths of his liliacly lyrical soul. He’s helped train me to stare boils at GeorgeBush whose putative leadership sounds all static behind the clichéd bombast. “We are bewildered,” DanGero said, “by your exploitative hierarchies anyhow, but that you would allow someone to domineer you so unmusically is sick and senseless to us.

    “Advanced worlds in the cosmos no longer require ethical laws, we have aesthetic laws. We weigh and measure actions and value in units of comedy. That’s why I gave you that necklace with the silver dogtag with carpe comedy stamped on it, as a token, as a reminder of your Martian blood, pog, that you are steeped in comedy and songfulness.”

   My exile to Earth, my exile from song and mirth to deaf Earth had been part of the last desperate Expedition of the Healers Guild, the Clowns, to find a cure for GAC, the Greed and Creed soul-crippling condition, the epidemic of which had swept sweet Earth for 2000 years of arid desolation.

   In his latest visit DanGero had told me that since I had foolishly fallen so somersault and devil dance with an Earthling, I could never risk bringing the possible contamination  home again to the planet we do not call Mars, but Bylar, To Dance. That permanent exile from the laughing apple-sweet rivers of my home is, dear reader, a dazzling and damned story for another fire-light flickered night. Is what you dimly call love, the insane rage, the filigree of mad mirth he and I pitilessly feel with each other worth that exile? Filigreeis a dainty web of precious metal, an haunting elf song wrought into a tiny token, a lace of metal, a braille grail jewelry you could feel in the dark, that dark where all souls journey implacably alone sometimes, at times arranged by Fate’s deranged whim – that filigree to remind me in that doomed silence which may or may not end of our dread mirth which we dared, holding only each other’s hand over the uncalculatable abyss. So is it worth it, Digrif, my friend in obsidian mirth, my cruel ironist, this exile for which I paid my whole soul? Timelessness will tell.

    So back to the goats whose plaintive and silent bleats remind us we’re in a surkafka land where people will actually spend $14000 per minute on a Fantasy Missile Defense system when they could fund universal health care for their fellow citizens in the beloved community with those same funds, as an example.

   BWR. Boils-Wielding-Ridicule. Frankly, of course I would prefer long, slow skewered rotisserie over hell-fires death for the maggots-for-brains ghouls who rule us, but I have evolved in civilized past the mutilations-by-proxy which keeps them in the ‘excruciating bone-splintering pain to other people’s children’ business that they practice with lurid violence behind the veil of patriotic songs and tinnily noble sentiments which bring back no dead child’s laughter.

    So on the 4th of July 2005, The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush Instead Of At Goats begins her BWR, Boils-Wielding Ridicule campaign. The end of Mr. Bush’s pinocchioing nose is the bulls-eye prize target. If just two of you can join me, we can triangulate and cast our blessedly mumbo jumbo voodoo boils spells upon his lying nose, the Lizard-in-Chief who will not offer up his own children to the Worthy Cause.

      “Yankee doodle, stare it up/Yankee doodle dandy/Mind the music and the step/And with the stares be handy.”   

 

=====

¹I wanted to write this report before I treated myself to reading Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare At Goats. I saw him on CSpan a while back and he spoke of the stranger bubbles we can slide into and of the 12ft Lizards that one guy was convinced ruled the world. I had been on this Reptile angle for years and this seemed a nifty ratification in neon of the theme. I didn’t want to read the book until I wrote The Woman Who Stares At GeorgeBush so as to have free rein to channel that idea without fear of imitation. Jon Ronson did tell us that the goats’ bleats were removed. Mr. Ronson has no association with or responsibility for even a gnat’s eyelash of my version of things. I’ll do you all up a review when I read the book.

 

²For those three people in America unfamiliar with The Coming Rapture – the Gist of it is that all the people who Truly Take Jesus Christ as their Lord and Savior are going to be Raptured Up en masse into Heaven in their actual bodies, leaving the rest of us infidels to brimstonily stew in our own sulphurous juices down here. I can’t recall whether Trumpets Sound as The Rapture begins, but I’m pretty sure that the Heavens open. This Divine Hoovering is imminent, any day or year now. Thus planes being piloted by Born-Again pilots will suddenly be pilotless, cars driverless, trains will have empty locomotives. //There is doctrinal uncertainty about whether one’s teeshirt from Target or for the better-heeled Believer, one’s crisply-ironed, medium-starch blue shirt from Brooks Brothers will be Raptured Up with one? Likewise dental fillings? Should one dress for Rapture every day? I have no answers to these questions because believe me *I* a.m. g.o.i.n.g.  t.o. b.e. left behind. Not only do I not take JC as my personal savior, I distinctly and specifically reject the lad. Boy, when I was 32 years old, I thought I knew it all too. But I’ll never have Mel to make a Passion of Pogblog and pour bucket’s o’ blood over me. I never actually used the word prayer before because me ‘n the multi-verse(many-poem place) are pretty tight as these things go, but I have taken to praying that The Rapture will come asap so they can go and we can be left behind to get about making it a fairer and jollier world without all the tedious preachy nastiness. The Shortest Book on Earth is Jokes in the Bible. (By the way, I’ll reiterate that I could care less what comforting hallucination anyone indulges in if they don’t force it and its consequences down the throat of others. That’s what’s got me riled.)

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If you know an agent, editor, publisher person who would handle this kind of rage for justice, rage for peace material, please let me know at .. pogblog@yahoo.com

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Squawk & re-Squawk

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Squawk & re-Squawk

  
    We must squawk. Now.

    I realize the dread and pity a doctor must feel when she looks at the x-ray on the light-box and the grainy gray shadows are undeniable, big, and in the wrong places.

    Our beloved <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags” />America is sick, friends. Very sick. If we unsqueamishly look at the x-ray of the American heart, of the American soul, we can see the shriveling heart, we can see the broken soul, the swollen pride, the emergency about-to-burst self-righteousness whose seeping toxic pus is fatally poisoning our unsweet, uncivil, unwise interactions with the rest of our planet family.

    We need radical, emergency action, citizens, beloved fellow journeyers. The radiant planet we could, we should share with glee and with mutuality of art and with ablazing heart is in peril. And we are each a voice in its healing. Denial is the sickness. That those who can still see, shrug, is the sickness. That in your secret heart, that in your dawn conversation with yourself, you are saying, “What can my one squawk matter? I would feel vulnerable, exposed, absurd. What can my one squawk matter anyway?” and you pour the comforting sugar-coated Frosted Flakes into your breakfast bowl and shrug.

    What happens when it is your own country (a false & fading label) which is the addict in tragic denial? It is time. It is time for an intervention, a cool-headed, warm-hearted intervention. No more shrugging – squawking now. Small, persistent squawks. Today, your first deliberate act of squawk. At the water cooler, at the café, the bar; at lunch; hanging out at a colleague’s cube; finally e-scribbling the 176-word letter to the editor which has been drifting through your mind.

    It is not the size of your first squawk, citizen friend, it is that it is deliberate. Move one small step outside your familiar zone, your comfort zone. Squawk to someone different. Squawk differently to someone familiar. It is the intent not the content which will change, will challenge the zeitgeist, the world pattern, the planetary psychic mosaic. Light up your little tile. It will add up. It will add up to illumination soon.

    Squawk mildly if that’s your style. Squawk raucously if you prefer. What is eloquent is your intent. If you are saying, “By golly, I’m squawking!” to yourself, you got it.

    Back when, an astronaut was asked, “Tell us about looking back at the planet Earth from space!” The astronaut  paused and spoke, a calm and radical squawk (astronauts are calm), the most radical observation of the 20th century, the most radical observation in the history of the planet, “When I looked back at our home, when I looked back at planet Earth – what struck me when I looked back at Earth is that there aren’t any lines on it.”

      No sentence turned my inner kaleidoscope, no sentence changed my own life more. “There aren’t any lines on it.” Of course! First there had been the stunning, heartbreaking photograph of the whole wondrous fragile planet suspended in immense space, the shocking heart-stopping gasp of the moment when many of us broke out of the cocoon and became planetary. It was the most important single photograph ever taken.

   But ‘there aren’t any lines on it’ is vertiginously radical. Families, tribes, nations, creeds – we have so internalized the arbitrary lines, the imaginary borders outside of which or inside of which you can arbitrarily be placed — that we have actually instead of, say, taking care of each other, (e.g. planetary health care), taken our common treasure, our brow-sweat common wealth and built teeming and crescendoing weapon systems to mutilate each other. Instead of training soldiers of healing armed with syringes of polio vaccine, mosquito nets, and M-32 shovels to dig wells for clean water, instead we spend millions upon millions (one billion equals a thousand million) training energetic and idealistic young men to be soldiers of death-and-mutilation dealing. And those who would squawk out allow themselves to be cowed by those afflicted by virulent patriotism, a disease of curable blindness, of curable deafness.

   The strident and belligerent theo-fascism of church, state, and corporations is in its last ugly throes. The chest-thumping patriarchal, hierarchical, to-win-there-must-be-a-loser, exploitative, model’s days are numbered. Most of our planet-sharing fellows have already got it, grokked it, or are on the cusp of that eureka. ‘Where is America?’ they look back concernedly and ask. America who dared the first ablazing step to be born into the pearlescent dawn of the first democracy, that giddy glimpse of  justice and equality. Where is America now as we dare the step into the dawn of the 2nd democracy that includes all citizens of the planet?

    Earth is the mother of each of us, Earth is the mother of our mothers – we are all one family. The invisible lines we so trumpeted, for which we despised, for which we killed – oh ye gods, there is blood on our hands, there is blood on all our hands, pilgrim – the invisible lines drawn on parchment, on paper, in blood do not appear running through the forests, over the deserts in photographs. The one planet, the same planet, the great ship, Home, bears us all, snug, in the vast galactic sea. Home, the planet is home to us all.

   Do squawk and re-squawk. For the sake of  your, of our darling Home. A squawk a day. America can be healed, and can contribute humbly and mightily to the care of Home. After the first gawky squawk, it gets easier.

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xxxxxx

07.08.05

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HardBias? letter to Chris Matthews

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June 20, 2005

Dear Mr. Matthews,

  Every time I  tuned in to what I am now compelled to call HardBias after Mr.Bush's tepid (quaaludy, I thought) speech about the “Vietnamization” of Iraq, I went from distressed to appalled to see these photogenic young blonde women waxing adorable about how happy and proud their brave husbands were to be helping the Iraqi people.

   This is journalism? Had this episode of SoftBall been scripted by Karlsputin Rove and paid for by what used to be called CREEP in the old days, I would not have been surprised. That it was hosted by the edgy writer of the real and original book HardBall, that it was presented as journalism — talk about shilling, 'product placement' and selling out — I am still agog.

     John Kennedy was shot on my 19th birthday — there is no amount of money or access they could pay me to make me take a dive like that 'town meeting.'

    I have a Gold-Star-parent friend who knows what side the bullet hit her only son's head before it exploded into a bloody confetti of brains because they sent her his twisted glasses back — she could and would have told you a less cottoncandy story.

    You must remember the exact same words for the hideously failed 'Vietnamization' quagmire policy? “Stand up Iraqis and we can stand down Americans.” Deja entendu — I already heard this turkey — if it gobbles like a turkey, it's probably a turkey. Iraqisization. Hello. Remember? I heard not one single commentator utter the term “Vietnamization — Huge Stupid Failure.” 

     I know you're under intense corporate pressure, but I never dreamed you would capitulate this profoundly. I remember you when you were spunky, were cool, were a vertebrate.

 

In sorrow,

pogblog

pogblog@yahoo.com

http://pogblog.myblogsite.com

ps. I'd share my full name etc under a Blog Throat arrangement, but the stuff I'm writing on pogblog is less polite and formal than this — flaying comes to mind — and I want to live another day to scorch the 12ftTall Lizards Disguised as Human Beings who purport to Lead us.

 

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email your own letter to hardball@msnbc.com <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = “urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office” /> 

 

easy HELP here To COMMENT on pogblog

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Anyone can view pogblog's Main Page and read all the articles & fables. Just clik more>> at the end of the excerpt.

 

 To COMMENT as of September 28, 2005, just write your Comment in the box and type the tumbled letters into the Comments Verification Box & clik post. This will post an anonymous Comment. Tho of course you can sign your name or handle if you wish in your Comment. (If you want an easy clikkable automatic contact link, then create a Reader Account. Nice but not necessary now) .. ..

 

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