Wednesday, December 29, 2010

mo'ili'ili twenty ten

a cool night-bloody orgy
blue light
carnal, red-fountains of love-fluid
cries of excess-passion-screaming agony
release-remised-remission-a tease
no longer than your finger
tugging my hair
pulling me in through the airless room
around you
the night-drunken-blurred
fighting-dramatics and biting lovers
strangers-you two
me and him
all lusting for the same thing-person-girl
ghost. I think I feel the most desperately hopeless
in the moistness of my eyes
in the warmth of her words
this damp hole in the ground
terror-doom-eternal emptiness in the caress of deaths greeting
our last chanceless meeting
fleeting glance at my impossible-dream-gleaming sword of the truth-what a joke
life’s a lie
revealed, impressionist illusions-ahhh course haired-grass-rotten path
earthy laughter of my massive brother
my lingering growth
lungs filled with stunned gillnet-hooks
cooked like Tess's salmon
probably the best seafood ever
other then in pictures and books
techno-color-plastic covered coral and yellow-black-angelfish
forever bumming a ride
strumming these rusty strings
banging a tired hide with my roughened bare hands
severing the hair-bands of my spiritual-tail
hopefully these words telling all possible
for simple symbols to convey (to you)
clearer skinned skies and my reddened orbs dry
and itchy
why do I absorb depression and attract dysfunctional children?
my nunchaku lesson-a blessing-an eighth-an exchange
of faith-for the faithless reverends
beat master-bike builder-ninja skilled nerd-skater
stoned warrior-armed to the teeth with glass
serotonin ronin-roaming the townhood all, altered
mind like the changing seasons, his summer filled with sun, spring-guns-winter-cold hand holding teenagers desperately grasping for warmth even though its 80 degrees
in Honolulu

Guy Maddin is a genius!

Sunday, December 26, 2010

a christmas eve insomniac love poem

Saturday aching numbness
ahh dead beat street bedpan
begging man
cut at the feet of a broken pane
shards of his crystal eyes blue hazed
raining lemonade
oxidizing the group ethic of panic
we lack wit to come upon a fat token in path
but keep toking and walk past with my roach-clip
and zipped up eyes
unzipping dirty denim revealing my venom
filled syringe of flesh
penetrating lids and burning dark circles
into them
sacred Sunday morning at the hour
my offering on the cloth
thanks to digital illusion again
I have been tricked into the tiny death
by the slick whip of ideas and your warm sigh
pull me into dreams with intimate imagery
your face and body, surrealistically beautiful in my minds eye
to think that I could never be with you
makes me want to die now quickly in this empty bed of cum and sweat
is it really so impossible?
do I chase in circles for ribbons of a mirrored self-reflecting sunscreen?
I try to apply the lotion slowly but I’m busy in the blue moonlight howling down the valley to all other brothers in arms
step up
and stop fucking it for the rest of us
I try to stay away
and stop thinking of you
but what use is lying alone to myself?

ancestry, incestry,

I am a perfect Asian man
drinking my tea on a bamboo table
I’m watching the rain wash old ways away
eroding Eros
growing greenhouse gases
diluted oceans spiked with sewage and plastic
I am a simple minded American
with my coffee and blank stare
a native of the continent
with stoic eyes, searching for a god that’s not there
I am an Irish immigrant with my pale skin and
generational poverty
a French baron in a wagon wheelin’ to the northwest I am
an Apache warrior
a confederate soldier and
a Japanese farmer
my blood has converged the world over
the axis of migrating sex and oppression but
wherever cut I’ve bled into the land that birthed me
underneath we’re all red and blue
our eyes are hues of illusion
shifting back to
a simpler fiction, and a less conflicting beverage to be sipped in my
humid Hawaiian home

Friday, December 24, 2010

eyes at the junction

fixed on eyes
waning, waxen vixen
seduction, manipulation, stimulate
growing profit in erections
new phalluses on the block
oh ever turning cock-sucking town
and metro clock
I am a product of your disease
a rat of your gutter
and a child of your mother
my home, down below
every wet roaming day where
no one goes
don’t slip, or tip my foes
don’t stub your toes
I’ll make some toast and show you the sights
we’ll feast on the beasts of darkness
and worship our pale new gods
fluorescent light
oh neon prophet brother!
oh gaseous fuming junker, japanese car maker
and speeding kids on E
elementary psychedelic practice with a high acidity
just a dropout with a vial dropping
only to hold me, dilation lonely
loveless nation of hedonist
and neo-Buddhist nihilist
we’re heathens holding on to
a way older then this
I walk to sacrifice myself
on a path of love
at the junction

don't fear death

keep patterns close
don’t forget the geometry of our rhythm
run fast down the trail
let the trees
rush past and dance in the breeze
like music
the singing Douglas
chasing you through a vast field of nothingness
and I’ll never catch up
never touch the top of your highest peak
but the climb never minds
my life is in utter vain
I feel no pain when I’m
home again
in your distant presence
aura, your scent’s sending me wild
because I know your flora’s close
and I don’t fear death


Thursday, December 16, 2010

for whom it doesn't concern, may you know

bus stop sketch recorded via shitty cellphone
unwillingly waiting for
the necessity of my return
a place to sleep tonight
and more then just burn
shit eat live dream
what makes it worth the trouble
when every beauty is a fragile mask hiding loathing
and death?
I try to find the joy in its continuance
with each breath, each nuanced beat and poor
bored disheartened
kid on the street
lookout roadside
hardened landscape, you luscious flower!
I'm simply lusting to devour you
but find it so hard to trust illusions so pretty
useless, and vain, don't question why
its so fucking hard loving anything in this city

Wednesday, December 15, 2010

know the way

wayfinder, oh righteous trailhead
broken path and overgrown switch
reveal your secrets with every forward foot
whispered joyous songs of steps
sing me the ancient’s stories
we're following something forgotten
deep within
such an intelligent, leafy growth of
rock bits
oh stream spitting rhymes
a seasonal proclamation flowing
up the valley in timeless lineage
like blood spilling milk
dropped topless head
tuning into laughter that falls to a pool
below, oh way
bathe in the momentary stillness and pray
oh wayfinder,
stay a while with me

For R-E. Listen, learn and play your fiddle laying down

Monday, November 29, 2010

how to take salvia

SchNEWS: New Kids on the Black Block

" A hysterical mother looked on as her 15-year-old son was aggressively bundled to the ground. He was eventually released on police bail on suspicion of assault police, presumably for the damage done to police boots and batons inflicted by his head during the arrest..."

Saturday, November 27, 2010

trip picnic packing

I've always thought preparing for a trip with a bag of random useful items would be cool, someones beat me to it though with a mildly amusing list of items for a bag of tricks

Friday, November 26, 2010

Drone + Drone = Post Rock with soft vocals?

Sunn O))) & Boris - The Sinking Belle (Blue Sheep)

the rainy season

spilled coffee on dirty jeans
cum and Clementine citrus smelling hands and
feet covered in the filth of yesterday
brains juiced and concentrated on the loss of a few
too many times
instances of constant misery
far and distant expanses of sad immeasurable beauty
the terror of sharp mountains
ominous cloud people’s phallic castles
I would like to visit
an emptier world
a bigger forest
your deeper emotion
a real person who understands without speaking
what I mean about this ugly reeking city
someone who wouldn’t trade true life and freedom for the comfort of feeding on civilizations dieing hope
if love is a thing
and life is vibrations I’d let them ring like a brass bell on the open ocean
like a crack of thunder
a gunshot over the bow and under
the island I call home
to roam and plunder the mountains of their fruit and game
would anybody share a dream with me?
could I show you inner sweet blood?
two reflections of the voidness
searching for bliss
can I tell you
what I strive to die for?
what I’d love to live like?
taking you on a long hike up
my desolate spinal steps
would you let me explore where many men have gone before?
cyclic whore mother of earth
ancient songs know not the worthiness of
wrong and right
eternal life and enlightenment are not afraid of loneliness
and I am aware of only one place
I’d rather be alone and its not here on the porch
torching up a fat one
but somewhere nearer to you
blue sky sea
infinite majesty beyond me to
believe in
seeing with closed eyes
the telling darkness and dank smell
of the rainy season

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Ibogaine: Shock the Junkie

A large article on ibogaine's use in addiction treatment is making the rounds in alternative weekly papers:
Clare Wilkins, the vivacious 40-year-old director of Pangea Biomedics, pops the lid off the blender to check the consistency of the concoction Price craves: peanut butter, soy milk, agave syrup, hemp protein powder and a few scoops of chocolate-flavored Green SuperFood.
Oh, and a half-teaspoon of root bark from the tabernanthe iboga plant.

Taken in sufficient quantity, the substance triggers a psychedelic experience that users say is more intense than LSD or psilocybin mushrooms. Practitioners of the Bwiti religion in the West African nation of Gabon use iboga root bark as a sacrament to induce visions in tribal ceremonies, similar to the way natives of South and Central America use ayahuasca and peyote. Wilkins is one of a few dozen therapists worldwide who specialize in the use of iboga (more specifically, a potent extract called ibogaine) to treat drug addiction.

She pours the thick liquid into a Mason jar but agrees to hand it over to Price only on the condition heíll stay awake and out of bed and interact with his fellow residents and the staff. Price grudgingly agrees and takes a seat at the dining-room table. Sunlight pours in through a sliding-glass door that opens to a terrace with a sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean and the San Diego skyline in the distance.

"Ron, I remember when you called me [three weeks ago]; you were crying on the phone. You were so devastated you couldnít leave the house," Wilkins says gently. "When you use, you end up alone in a bathroom or something. You need a community. As weird and misfits as we are, we need this sense of community. You need to learn to deal with being in your body each day instead of relying on the fucking ibogaine."

Ibogaine and iboga root bark are illegal in the United States but unregulated in many countries, including Canada and Mexico. Wilkins, though, is hardly alone in her belief that iboga-based substances can be used as a legitimate treatment for drug addiction. Researchers at respected institutions have conducted experiments and ended up with hard evidence that the compound works--as long as you donít mind the mindfuck.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

In the Land of the Free...

Political prisoners on a modern day slave plantation

druggy ho extraction

oh craving, goddess
in the godless blackness of the underground
my loving stench never mentioned above
never spoken a word
or broken the silence with this
if it is anything like that to
fuck a hole in the ground without making
a sound in the hard cement chamber beneath all the
asian hipsters with iphones
and grandmas driving
this painful machine of desperation
with the heater on higgghhh
if ever an enemy of mine than that
sick hopeless feeling to make an innocent boy
rape himself in his head and
other places
to breathe in and inject in
different orifices
oh open lips and warm skinned
wet within, sinful sisters
and druggie ho’s
everywhere we are surrounded by pretty faces and brains compounded
with raining alkaloid tears
take me away and then add some
hot solvent
evaporate my fears for that
crystal clear kind of mind
I guess just
take care of yourself
when your out using
some dude for his stash and car
whatever parking lot
you let him grope you in the dark while he takes a hit
a shot
a chance
all for the lost romance of a thought

Monday, November 22, 2010

Stone Age Brain, Space Age Culture

Mickey Z.
Infoshop News
November 20, 2010

I was recently asked to do a short reading at Art House Astoria

Huddled around flickering candles and eating food before it could spoil, longtime neighbors introduced themselves, discovering similarities and answering the question of the day: “Where were you when the lights went out?” They were asking this, of course, during the big blackout of August 14, 2003, but I’m getting a little ahead of myself. This story begins in the stars…
read more

Friday, November 19, 2010

VBS Meets Issei Sagawa

On June 11, 1981 a Dutch student named Renée Hartevelt arrived at an apartment at 10 Rue Erlanger She had been invited there by a classmate at the Sorbonne Academy in Paris, France. The classmate was 32 year-old Issei Sagawa. Not long after she arrived he shot her in the neck with a rifle while she sat at a desk with her back to him. Afterward he had sex with her corpse and, over the course of the next two days, proceeded to eat much of her body.

He was held without trial for two years after his arrest until he was declared legally insane (and thereby unfit to stand trial) by French psychiatrists and confined to a mental institution. While there, his account of the crime was published in japan as In The Fog. His new celebrity was no doubt a determining factor in the French authorities’ decision to extradite him to Japan. There, he was examined once again by psychiatrists who declared him sane but “evil”. Due to a technicality, in which Japanese authorities cited the lack of certain papers supposed to have been provided by French courts, they found it impossible to hold him and on August 12, 1986 Sagawa checked himself out of the mental institution.

For the past 24 years he’s been living in Tokyo. He is still a minor celebrity and has written over twenty books, mostly having to do with his own crimes or commentary on the crimes of others. He’s also been in a few exploitative films and sells his paintings, most of which are portraits of women. This is where VBS meets him then, seemingly running out the tail end of his notoriety and not particularly hopeful for the future. Vice does a commendable job in staying completely out of the way and letting the man speak for himself. Sagawa, for his part, has spent most of his life reflecting on one event and, as is usually the case with interviews of murderers, he has no real answers to provide.

Throughout, Sagawa speaks at length about his disgust both with himself and the public whose interest in the macabre has allowed him to flourish for so long. The last few minutes are of him describing how he would like to die in excruciating pain. It would have been easy for VBS to leave us with that sentiment; the image of the fiend undone by the horrors he has committed. Instead, the last image we see is of Renée Hartevelt, from whom everything was taken and whose death has made everything in Issei Sagawa’s life possible.

a cure

I’m sick of this disease
missing a place I’ve never been to
in love with someone I’ve never met
I am hungry for what I’ve never tasted
drunk on spilled beer
but never wasted
never more then a drop or so poorer in
the begging bowl it burns
we all pass around it
in turn we harmonize and sing the songs we have never heard
and love the god
that was never there
but if I look around and see her everywhere, these thoughts so illusive
running wild away, too free for this oppressive lifestyle
I was gone for a while in a dessert with a melting sun and a setting race of humanoid faces projected on to hologram tee pees like a
prehistoric silent film
an awkward conscious haunts me
don’t stop us from trying though
a being wanting to be
impossibly alive
my body stripped of its essence
and skinned of hide for a new drum
how beautifully beat eternally
the flesh of innocent self-sacrifice should suffice to please the
entities and selves that cure me
of this disease

they must realize the only reason people will visit their country now is for whores

The new conservative Dutch government wants to force the country's marijuana cafes to become "members only" clubs, a move that would effectively block foreigners from buying the drug.
If the idea ever becomes reality -- it would be legally complicated and politically divisive -- it would be the latest of the country's liberal policies to be scrapped or curtailed as the Dutch rethink the limits of their famed tolerance.

While marijuana is technically illegal in the Netherlands, it has been sold openly in designated cafes for decades, and police make no arrests for possession of small amounts.

Justice Minister Ivo Opstelten said that in the future, only residents of Dutch cities will be allowed to purchase cannabis. "Not tourists. We don't like that," he said on state television in remarks broadcast Wednesday.

Agrofuels accelerate global warming

"A study published last week in Brussels warns that the European Union (EU) could worsen climate change if it continues with its policy of increasing agrofuel production, causing serious social and environmental problems in the countries where the crops are produced..."
read more

every morning

waking early
from a dream of you kissing him goodbye
and feeling shitty when I come to this
world of opened eyes and closed minded people
where there are too many moments spent thinking of you
a waste
a war fought every morning born
for a taste of the unseen
the unfelt that I am feeling now
I was
so briefly filled
and emptied with
the low fluid of loveless isolation
now stuck in it
these shallow thoughts and hollow dreams
where time is like jello shots
and my mind is green with the mildew of untold moldy growths
a colony of lonely depression sitting for a session with the old broken bong
this morning dreams came again
like a song stuck in my head
this time
somehow we were together again
against all logic and reason in my conscious body
my subterranean dreamstate ego still can’t let go
and there I was in utter bliss
to hold you again
I told you I loved you
more then a friend but I woke up and it ended
I knew I shouldn’t feel that way
life is too short to be lived
tortured by illusions
but too long to lie alone all night
and dream of things
out of touch with my own voice and your hands
I must learn the unteachable command to control my soul
it wont take many drugs to fill the hole
you left
it was always there anyways
it grows slightly bigger when I live with
but without you
every morning mourning the eventual rise and fall of the sun
every second waiting for what will never come from anything but the end of a gun
freedom bliss and something like this
an end to clouds of loneliness and the flashing pain
awaiting death
a rolling thunder pummels my
cerebral tunnel channeling the coming storm
into the songs of tiny droplets red

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Medical Research with Psychedelics Teaser Clip

Obsolete after the Singularity: Top human design flaws

Humans have come a long way in their evolution, but as technology and culture progress we humans are lagging behind. Why can’t we evolve fast enough? Here are a few big hurdles holding us back....

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

German people in unprecedented rebellion against government

Police personnel from France, Croatia and Poland had joined in the biggest security operation ever mounted against protestors against the a train carrying nuclear waste to a depot in an isolated part of Lower Saxony’s countryside. Helicopters, water canons and police vehicles, including an armoured surveillance truck, accompanied an endless column of anti-riot police mounted on horses and also marching down the railway tracks into the dense woods. Tens of thousands of anti riot police clattered along the tracks, their helmets and visors gleaming in the morning sun, and wearing body armour, leg guards and carrying batons.

read more

Monday, November 15, 2010




In the era of Total Information Awareness, representative democracy as we practice it in the U.S. is looking more and more quaint and out-dated. The Obama administration continues the Bush post-911 paranoia with increased surveillance of “we the people”. While the government's ability to collect data on it's people (more than 99.9999% of whom have done absolutely nothing wrong) increases so does the paranoia, creating a feedback loop of diminishing civil rights.
As rights-infringing technology has advanced exponentially, the technology of democracy has not. Our leaders make decisions very much in the same manner that they have for the last two centuries. They travel to a central location and meet in committees. They pound the needs and desires of their campaign contributors into a slurry of semantic abstractions. They ad heaping spoonfuls of pork-fat earmarks, appropriations and amendments, obfuscate the intent with archaic legalese, then force-feed the resulting pablum to the public while claiming victory for their party. With any luck, these franken-laws, stitched together from the putrid flesh of dead ideas, rise to zombie-life in the course of several months- but more likely several years.
Despite information technology's rapid advancements, those advancements have yet to be applied to the decision making process but only to the command and control structure. Hyper-specialization within the bureaucratic class has lead to the establishment of an American Apparatchik. These political functionaries desperately fight to preserve their territorial power through the maintenance of the status quo. The resulting Kafka-esque system virtually guarantees that laws are outdated before they are passed, assuring – nothing.
Virtually every “hot-button” issue in the American political discourse right now is an example of lawmaking that is trailing far behind the public. By dropping the anchor of policy, politicians are holding the ship of state in position, trying to hold back the flow of society- but they cannot control the flow- our culture has proceeded far downstream, leaving government behind.
Examples are endless:
“Don't Ask, Don't Tell” - polling among troops show clearly that this is a non-issue. Most people under 30 have grown up in the post “metro-sexual” era and simply don't give a shit.
Gay Marriage- Why is marriage defined in law? By replacing all “marriage” laws with civil contracts, the rights of all people are protected, leaving the marryin' to the preachers.
Cap and Trade Legislation – In the years between Kyoto Protocol (1997) and it's implementation (2005), the renewable energy sector grew exponentially. The push to add a dubious financial market based on carbon trading has gained more detractors to clean energy technology than it has fans.
Because of this growing disconnect between the people and their rulers, more and more citizens are choosing to practice “selective obedience”. By simply choosing not to observe certain laws, boundaries are stretched and eventually they become irrelevant. For example, many (if not most) young people in America today violate copyright laws. They download music and movies from pirate sites overseas, and most never experience any legal issues. It has become the norm. Persecuting a few poorly chosen individuals to make “examples” out of them simply makes the entertainment industry and their friends in the new Apparatchik look that much more foolish. Drug prohibition, clearly a long-standing example of the total failure of policy-making, serves only to profit the prison-industrial complex, while the vast majority of casual users continue to enjoy altering their realities un-hindered by big-brother. Speed limits? They only matter if you get caught. Taxes on barter, trade or cash payments? Yeah right.
The governments response to all of this is to increase the authority of agencies under the umbrella of the Department of Homeland Security. They are using information technology against citizens in order to make up for the governments inability to deal with it's own obsolescence. By collecting information on EVERYONE, they are working under the premise that the larger the haystack, the more needles they will find. But as Cory Doctorow points out in his 2008 article for the Guardian:
“The problem of sifting through vast amounts of data was highlighted by the US 9/11 Commission, which concluded that the American intelligence community knew in advance that the attacks on the World Trade Center and Pentagon were in the offing, they just didn't know they knew it. The pieces were all there for anyone who knew to look for them, needles buried in a haystack of irrelevancies. “
Today, we are all potential needles. Your anomalous behavior makes you look more and more like a needle. Your donation to a charity, your phone calls to an overseas relative, your purchase of allergy medication, all can potentially add to a profile that makes you look more like a needle. Your commuting habits- tracked by your transit pass. Your regular meals at the neighborhood middle eastern restaurant- noted on your credit card record . Increasingly, any variation from the mainstream is suspect behavior.
As we know from our countries history of locking up non-violent “offenders”, criminalization of anomalous behavior creates criminals. Persecution leads to aberrant behavior. What we need is not to be increasingly surveilled to make sure that we are not violating norms, but to be given the freedom to rise to humanities highest potential. When given the opportunity, people generally choose to work for the common good. Is it any wonder that a recent study shows that people who download pirated music are also 10 times more likely to buy music? This knowledge has lead savvy music business executives to rethink the way they deliver their product and to profit from it, rather than suing their customers. Civil unions and gay marriages, as it turns out, are good for the economies of the states who recognize those unions as a civil right. Decriminalization of marijuana and the use of marijuana as medicine is good for everyone except large drug companies and the prison industry. Opening up the monopolistic electric utility industry to innovation by solar and wind development will bring about emissions reductions faster than a byzantine financial trading scheme.
In the world of computing, operating systems are continually improved. Problems are located, patches written and updates issued. Occasionally, a completely new version of the OS is warranted. In the “open-source” software community, that source code is open to anyone who wishes to work on it, and their improvements can be freely adopted to the benefit of all. This dynamic system assures that the system is constantly improving, and that everyone has the freedom to customize the system, adding new ideas, taking away things that don't work.
In government, fixes take the form of new patches, in a never-ending additive process. Nothing is ever subtracted, no new source code is ever written. Innovators do not go into government, because there is no room for innovation in government. By forcing people into “the middle”, our government is suppressing individuality and grinding off the rough edges of society where innovation lives. They have institutionalized mediocrity, stifling any hope of advancing as a civilization. The fallacy of “the middle ground” is dragging us down. The term “moderate” increasingly refers not to people who carefully consider both sides of an issue, but rather to people without conviction or imagination. The “middle ground” is not where we should choose to live- it should be where we meet to set a few ground rules that allow us all to live and work unhindered as individuals.
Until we agree to addressing the issue of our out-dated government source code, there is no hope for cultural evolution in this nation. It is up to individuals to adopt “selective obedience”, to hack the system and accept the mantle of peaceful dissidence.

“People who live in the post-totalitarian system know only too well that the question of whether one or several political parties are in power, and how these parties define and label themselves, is of far less importance than the question of whether or not it is possible to live like a human being.”
-Vaclav Havel

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Jackson C. Frank - Tumble In the Wind (version 1)

I need to learn this

i seem to tumble in the wind
i wait for it to begin
when i look at you
i ain't too proud to say
i once loved a girl this way

i bring trouble on my lonesome self
i see danger in each offered help
times are hard
the money just won't come through
i would be alone if not for you

they brought my in on a flatcar
down from old hong kong
tried to tell me what i was doing
was absolutely wrong
tried to make me over
into a man of steel
but i knew i would have to kneel

from the plains of alberta
with its wheat so wild and strong
i rolled over the Northlands
till i came to saskatchewan
from a hardback in my satchel
i read the words quite clear
hurry home to your loved ones now
wintertime is near

i seem to tumble in the wind
i wait for it to begin
when i look at you
i ain't too proud to say
i once loved a girl this way

warriors against the all nations

I don’t ask why
when I prepare for the worse
the downfalls always better if I’m expecting disaster
until someday we blow up
the explosion is bigger than the device
I couldn’t escape and the water came in at night
we drowned in our sleep knowing
only assumptions and lies
all the unturned pages that don’t matter when you die
when consciousness deteriorates
the body is finite and death
oh void
an extension of life’s unbounded light!
let me lay in rest
as a body in the snow
or a being in a glowing cloud
some vapor organism that a wood smoke spirit could live in, truly
our heaven is divided by the doors of are perceptual limitations
the very core of our conscious is capable of unconstrained creation
but our relations with each other die too
losing our love of the land that bore us shelter, food and all aspects of us as we are
this young fucking generation would rather have smart-phones and cars
but what I see
lies and illusion
a mass of army ants at a drunken picnic of the gods
is it really happening to me?
incestuous infestations of breadsticks, buildings and filing cabinets falling onto the pavement from above the flooding streets and all you and I can think is
what will we eat when the industry destroys natures cornucopia
and when we destroy the industrial system in it self
or on its own
these things have a shelf life you know
and the date on aunt civ's soup is past due
grandma please avoid future greed poisoned stew
throw away the few that rule the many
sabotage commercialism till the mountains are plenty with
forest to forage
sing till the fish come back
of a place where there once lived a peaceful people
and love without thought or hesitation
when they whisper in the tunnels
“we are transcendental warriors against all nations”

Tyrannous Space Demons of Future-Past New York

I cant seem to get the links right

Thursday, November 11, 2010

a sample of the fishpond
I couldnt upload the pics I took from the album, so I have just the link
plus this, whatever it is

Monday, November 8, 2010

Zapatista Inspiration

Could a guerilla army organized of hunters, farmers and fishermen liberate a forested hawaiian island and create an autonomous zone based on traditional hawaiian culture and ahapua'a system, as well as decentralization, mutual aid and non-authoritarian philosophy?
if not i'm moving to chiapas

This sign reads, in Spanish: Top sign: "You are in Zapatista rebel territory. Here the people command and the government obeys." Bottom sign: "North Zone. Council of Good Government. Trafficking in weapons, planting of drugs, drug use, alcoholic beverages, and illegal sales of wood are strictly prohibited. No to the destruction of nature." Federal Highway 307, Chiapas.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

druggy wishing

all of them in the animals belly
just red gummy bears in orchards of apple pie and
ice dreams
crack dens
broken seams in jizzed on jeans
other holes in places
unseen pictures
in our high fucking heads
and in dead peoples embalming elixirs
the whole social nature of a creature based in
violent pornography
still isn’t good enough for them
and is still kind of weird for me when my eyes are closed and I’m touching you under the covers of your eyelids
keeping my cornea warm too
its images will never forget us
and a lonely mind wont let me forget you
I know it’s a cheap rhyme
it’s a cliché tune and square shaped rhythm that I’m giving
but its desperately true
and annoyingly familiar
like all those stoner jokes
they can’t even get me now that I’m
choking on smoky laughter after the fact of living like this is realized
a disaster
come on
then off
come down
it all happens faster then my eyes will see
a momentary movie about our fucking fantastic misery
a quick photograph of the future
its in black and white like now but mostly
voided distortion
and druggy wishing
scheming memes and grow op plans
we’ll still never grow up
cold and alone but I’ll cry from above my home
dark children of ash and bloodshot eyes,
do you understand me?

end:civ the trailer!

dont take too much notice on the tongue in cheek voice over and half assed animation, this is good, very important shit

Dorothy Day in Love

Dorothy Day in Love

New letters reveal the frank sexuality of a possible saint.

Robert Ellsberg

“In those days I lived with a woman, not my lawful wedded wife, but a mistress whom I had chosen for no special reason but that my restless passions had alighted on her.”

Dorothy Day in Love

New letters reveal the frank sexuality of a possible saint.

Robert Ellsberg

Generally speaking, there is not much to say about the sex lives of the saints. Yes, they were great lovers of God, and if Bernini’s famous sculpture “St. Teresa in Ecstasy” is any evidence, one can appreciate that such love was not merely platonic. But what about passionate, erotic, physical love between flesh-and-blood humans? Even if one looked carefully at the lives of the virgin martyrs and the celibate monks, priests and religious who dominate the religious calendar, it would be hard to fill a page on the subject of sex and holiness.

There is St. Augustine, who writes about his youthful search for “some object for my love.” In different forms and persons, including his mistress of many years, he evidently found it. But in every case Augustine wants to show how the “clear waters” of love were invariably spoiled by the “black rivers of lust.” Augustine describes his relationship with his unnamed mistress, the mother of his son, in these unflattering terms: “In those days I lived with a woman, not my lawful wedded wife, but a mistress whom I had chosen for no special reason but that my restless passions had alighted on her.”

Dorothy and Forster

It is striking to compare Augustine’s treatment with a similar passage in The Long Loneliness, the memoir of Dorothy Day, the American-born co-founder of the Catholic Worker. There she introduces the story of her love affair with Forster Batterham, and the role he played in hastening her spiritual journey: “The man I loved, with whom I entered into a common-law marriage, was an anarchist, an Englishman by descent, and a biologist.” They met at a party in Greenwich Village in the early 1920s and soon thereafter began to live together—as she put it, “in the fullest sense of the phrase”—in a house on Staten Island.

Among their bohemian set there was nothing scandalous about such a relationship. It was evidently Dorothy who liked to think of it as a “common-law marriage.” For Forster, who never masked his scorn for the “institution of the family,” their relationship was simply a “comradeship.” Nevertheless, she loved him “in every way.” As she wrote: “I loved him for all he knew and pitied him for all he didn’t know. I loved him for the odds and ends I had to fish out of his sweater pockets and for the sand and shells he brought in with his fishing. I loved his lean cold body as he got into bed smelling of the sea and I loved his integrity and stubborn pride.”

Wait a minute! Day is here describing, without any hint of Augustine’s obligatory shame or regret, her physical relationship with a man to whom she was not married. Needless to say, she was not yet a Catholic. Yet her point is to show how this lesson in love, this time of “natural happiness,” as she called it, awakened her thirst for an even greater happiness. She began to pray during her walks and started to attend Mass. This religious impulse was strengthened when she discovered she was pregnant—an event that inspired a sense of gratitude so large that only God could receive it. With that came the determination that she would have her child baptized, “come what may.”

As a dedicated anarchist, Forster would not be married by either church or state. And so to become a Catholic, Dorothy recognized, would mean separating from the man she loved. “It got to the point where it was the simple question of whether I chose God or man.” Ultimately, painfully, she chose God. In December 1927 she forced Forster to leave the house. That month she was received into the church.

The New Letters

So goes the familiar story recounted in her memoir. But it is not the whole story. In editing Day’s personal letters, All the Way to Heaven, I was astonished to read an extraordinary collection of letters to Forster dating from 1925, soon after their first meeting, until December 1932, the eve of her new life in the Catholic Worker.

The early letters certainly reflect the passionate love described in The Long Loneliness. In her first letter she writes: “I miss you so much. I was very cold last night. Not because there wasn’t enough covers but because I didn’t have you.” In the next, “I think of you much and dream of you every night and if my dreams could affect you over long distance, I am sure they would keep you awake.” Separated for some weeks, she writes Forster: “My desire for you is a painful rather than pleasurable emotion. It is a ravishing hunger which makes me want you more than anything in the world and makes me feel as though I could barely exist until I saw you again...I have never wanted you as much as I have ever since I left, from the first week on, although I’ve thought before that my desires were almost too strong to be borne.”

The letters skip over the time of Tamar’s birth and Dorothy’s conversion, but after her parting from Forster they resume with poignant intensity. Despite the implication in Dorothy’s memoir that her conversion had marked an end, once and for all, to their relationship, this was far from the case. In fact, the letters continue for another five years, as Dorothy pleaded, cajoled and prayed that Forster would give up his stubbornness and consent to marry her.

In vain, she assured him that he would be “involving [himself] in nothing” if he married her. “Religion would be obtruded on you in no way except that you would have to see me go to church once a week, and five times a year on various saints’ days. I would have nothing around the house to jar upon you—no pictures and books. I am really not obsessed as you think I am.”

At times she could not hide her frustration: “Do I have to be condemned to celibacy all my days, just because of your pig-headedness? Damn it, do I have to remind you that Tamar needs a father?” Her tone fluctuated between tenderness and bitter reproach: “I am not restrained when I am lying in your arms, am I? You know I am not a promiscuous creature in my love.... But it is all so damned hopeless that I do hope I fall in love again and marry since there seems to be no possibility for a happy outcome to our love for each other.”

By the fall of 1932 Dorothy was living in New York. In December she traveled to Washington, D.C., to cover the Hunger March of the Unemployed. There on the feast of the Immaculate Conception, she offered a prayer that God would show her some way to combine her Catholic faith and her commitment to social justice. Immediately afterward she would meet Peter Maurin, the French peasant philosopher who would inspire her to launch the Catholic Worker and whose ideas would dominate the rest of her life. Whether there was any relation between the opening of this new door and the decision finally to close the door on her hope of marrying Forster, Dorothy’s letter to him of Dec. 10 would be her last for many years.

After describing her strong commitment to the prohibition of sex outside of marriage, she writes: “The ache in my heart is intolerable at times, and sometimes for days I can feel your lips upon me, waking and sleeping. It is because I love you so much that I want you to marry me.” Nevertheless, she concluded: “It all is hopeless of course, tho [sic] it has often seemed to me a simple thing. Imaginatively I can understand your hatred and rebellion against my beliefs and I can’t blame you. I have really given up hope now, so I won’t try to persuade you anymore.”

But even this did not mark the end of their relationship. Over the years they remained connected through Tamar. There would be friendly notes, the exchange of gifts and visits in the hospital. In Dorothy’s final years Forster took to calling every day. He was present at her funeral in 1980, and later at a memorial Mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

More Fully Human

So what, in the end, do these newly published letters reveal? They certainly confirm the deep, passionate love described in Dorothy’s memoir, thus underscoring the incredible sacrifice she endured for the sake of her faith. That sacrifice lay at the heart of her vocation; it was the foundation for a lifetime of courage, perseverance and dedication. It marked her deep sense of the heroic demands of faith. But in no sense did it represent a conflict in her mind between “merely” human love and “higher” religious aspirations. “I could not see that love between man and woman was incompatible with love of God,” she wrote. And if she had had her way, she would have embraced a happy family life with Forster and the many children she dreamed of.

Although, as Dorothy reported, some of her radical friends insinuated that her turn to God was because she was “tired of sex, satiated, disillusioned,” her true feelings were quite different. “It was because through a whole love, both physical and spiritual, I came to know God.”

If Dorothy Day is one day canonized, these letters will provide a fairly unusual resource. They serve to remind us, if that were necessary, that saints are fully human—perhaps, as Thomas Merton put it in Life and Holiness, more fully human: “This implies a greater capacity for concern, for suffering, for understanding, for sympathy, and also for humor, for joy, for appreciation for the good and beautiful things of life.”

Dorothy considered her love for Forster to be one of the primary encounters with grace in her life, one for which she never ceased to rejoice. That insight and that witness are among her many gifts.

Read selections from Dorothy Day's letters to Forster Batterham.

Robert Ellsberg, publisher of Orbis Books, is editor of The Duty of Delight: The Diaries of Dorothy Day and the recently published collection of her letters, All the Way to Heaven, reviewed in America on Nov. 8.
taken from by leaves from the fall

a txt message about trees

I love how the storms wind tells the trees to bless me
they whisper drops from clouds of shade that rest me
under the trees leaves I’m
meditating on mosquitoes
their bites bring my mind to go back
and relax
I move on to the underneath
that cushioned wreath of ferns
thank them
that centipedes concern me
disturbingly crawling
through the wet canopy
I know that in dreams they cannot hurt me
but our false gods so controlling
we push along this death machine not knowing on Earth
they fear hells heat
yet we are the masters of this reality
by the drum and the heart beat

a neccesary evil

As with any title I have ever made, the namesake for this blog was a carelessly ripped line from my list of poetry sketches and is totally meaningless and irrelevant for everything thats written here, however I'll put it up since I axed my facebook, which was its usual resting place...

he was spacing out
like into space, you know?
far, far out
in my own thoughts
I was creeping
he was kneeling by the creek
walking over this bridge, trail
a forest green
filtered sunlight and hazy rainbow
you smell like ferns
and I sweat
and coffee
he tries not to be self-conscious
but so becomes
we're in this moving coma together
turn the TV off
and let go of you
got to distance us
don’t get stuck
in the muddy pit of your
eye's hazel orbs
absorb my inner voice
the coyotes cries with the moon
and our fences wont keep them out
off the lambs
my tasty young
boy by the pond fishing
that was so long ago
its funny how bored echoes
resonate so strong later on
here now I’d rather be there
but where I am is the best for me
am I fucking myself too much
am I, as they say
throwing my life away
to where is that
death we're all headed
to life I am still leaving
avoiding like an annoying old friend or
my creepy neighbor
no there’s no god
or savior for the thought criminals
radical rebels and land fish
breathe in tanks of seawater man
for the sake of us all
regurgitate your empty meals
your empty life kills our dreams
when we're told so often to
“wake up”
to get “realistic”
I am realistic
in a surrealist way I’m quite the practical dreamer
not an “idealist”
there is no ideal world
only one less lonely
less hungry and more beautiful
I strive but to decompose alive for your gardens
rotting with grass cuttings and vegan feces
with my shitty poems fertilize soon too
my body for you Earth Mother
great Gaia I present she the goddess of all
charcoal from the fire
and leaves from the fall

Phish Pharmacopeia

Amazing list of substances found at recent Phish show bust.
Judging from the smorgasbord of drugs confiscated over the weekend, Atlantic City Police could hang a sign on their evidence locker that reads:
Phish Pharmacopeia.

The Grateful Dead-inspired jam band played Friday, Saturday and Sunday (Halloween) in "America's Playground," and authorities, including immigration/customs agents and members of the county prosecutor's office, collected everything from magic mushrooms and acid to the anesthetic ketamine and prescription pills.

They even seized Rice Krispies Treats with cannabis.

Enough to create an illustrated field guide to meds and mind-altering substances.

Arrested were 63 men and women from 15 states, plus one Philadelphia 15-year-old who allegedly resisted arrest after distributing nitrous oxide. Most of the accused were given summonses for possession and released. A detective "assaulted with nitrous oxide" while making two arrests was treated and released from a hospital, and a captain's hand was injured as he tried to subdue a male suspect, according to the police news release.

Here's the list of drugs gathered by A.C. police:

- 70 nitrous oxide tanks.
- 551.2 grams (19.4 oz.) marijuana.
- 4 marijuana-laced brownies.
- 16 marijuana-laced Rice Krispies Treats.
- 66 marijuana-laced cookies.
- 134.9 grams (4.8 oz.) psilocybin mushrooms.
- 22 doses of ketamine.
- 34.3 grams (1.2 oz.) of Ecstasy (MDMA powder form, a.k.a Molly).
- 60 pills of Ecstasy.
- 30.7 grams (1.1 oz.) cocaine.
- 2.2 grams (0.1 oz) heroin.
- 395 hits of LSD.
- 21 LSD-laced cookies.
- 26 Oxycodone pills.

Whoonga: HIV antiretrovirals used as narcotics in South Africa

As it turns out the antiretroviral drugs marketed by multinational pharmaceutical companies as a treatment for HIV are actually highly addictive narcotics:
Whoonga, as it's known, is a substance being smoked in poor township communities around Durban, and it's popping up in other parts of the country as well.
Drug-taking is commonplace in the townships - what else do you do if you're unskilled, uneducated and unemployed, as so many are?

Backroom experimentation produces an ever-changing array of concoctions that offer a cheap and lethal high.

What makes whoonga different - a fine white powder, added to marijuana and smoked - is its composition.

It's a blend of detergent powder, rat poison and, crucially, crushed up ARVs, or antiretroviral drugs distributed free to HIV sufferers.

With South Africa finally making inroads in the battle against HIV and Aids after years of denialism, this is a dreadful blow.

Whoonga is cheap, bought from a dealer for just 20 rand or $3 a hit. But 40 per cent of all South Africans survive on little more than $2 a day.

The average jobless whoonga user needs multiple hits to get through the day, so for many crime becomes the only way to secure a regular supply.

Worst of all, it means people in need of ARVs to save or prolong their lives are sometimes going without.

They're being mugged for their pills as they leave the clinic.

Whoonga is basically just smoked ARVs, most commonly Efavirenz (brand name Sustiva & Stocrin). Regardless of media hype about how it's consumed and any supposed additives, television news footage clearly shows a crushed tablet being smoked in a handrolled tobacco cigarette.

And of course Whoonga is surrounded by all the drug-war-retoric about the use and abuse of recreational substances. But what the media has yet to mention, if these drugs are so addictive and destructive, surely there must be a better treatment for HIV?!

from doesnation
» more at:
Posted By nick* at 2010-11-06 20:54:18 permalink | comments (1)
Tags: whoonga arv hiv

Sunday, October 31, 2010

I wonder if my words came out right
if your heard me in the night
feeling for your warmth
would you know it?
well I couldn’t sleep
tripping out in the woods
and laying on rocks
but the sound of you breathing made me breath deeper
and sometimes I’d follow yours
then slow them down to silence
so you can’t hear me anymore
I move away to a more acceptable position
fitting into the hard background
I can’t feel you but
your still there
still somewhere else
like every other girl
some sort of vision
a dream I’m still remembering
and an unmade decision to isolate myself
if I can’t have what’s before me
that’s wanted so badly
then shouldn’t I search inside?
accept life and death and pain
like a Buddhist poet
except I assess what gain can I take standing in the rain alone?
or in some dank dark place where my is soul sitting stoned
trying to make my life a work of art
but I think it is a tragedy
because I see things so black and white
like the ocean and sky
not wrong or right
but a void of ominous entities and omens
a place that I could make well with my poems
sing without worry for pitch
just the thick vibrations underneath us
a thin blanket
my feet bitten and legs leaning nearer
looking down so small
I can’t see your face
but its clearer what I want and its me
that holds back
a hesitation, one moment
or many hours
that I
never realizing the power of a glance
looked around for opportunities
and left them all for chance

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

ghost train

dull yellow shadows and pale static
ghosts or just peripheral apparitions
illusions due to light and eye movement
or spirits wandering
energy watching, waiting
floating in the corner of my vision
faces in the window
reflections not in the bathroom but flashing past the mirror
all my questions are quiet
as the lies become clearer
no truth revealed just a veil pulled back like a foreskin
oh godless darkness is the night
so lonely forever?
every session of forgotten dreams follow
the hollow thoughts and lust of laying in bed
staring at the after images in the drywall
my fake emotions melt in salty dribbles before sleep
still watching us
always just
a breath around the corner
stalking like the wind hunts distant voices
talking closer to the point
taking a young boy to a
rotting wooden dock in a dark northwestern cove
chimney smoke log cabin fever
memories and visions later
all my senses are dreams half remembered or
dead words never spoken
in this reality, a trip
this love is a state of my mind
at least temporarily mine until rationale finds the time
to end beautiful destructions of fire
with her face through a fence
silhouetted on barbed wire mountains

Nzambi: Hamilton's Pharmacopeia

Friday, October 22, 2010


Wow, France… Why can’t we do that here?!?? (part 1: Inoculation)

a washing song

I wanna see you

without anyone else

around to bother me

without their sad attempts at humor that

smother us in fake laughter

I wanna see her

with all her walls down

the raw naked soul

and body too

wishing I could share the despair with a like

minded friend

someone who smells the rain on air

somebody who hugs trees

and worships clouds too

oh heavenly fern covered ridge

come down vapor gods

open the fridge at 3 am

but don’t let out perception

I wanna love someone who

hates authority and dreams of insurrection

every night

despite my hungering I am still

seeking nothing

my life is comprised of doing laundry

dreaming and smoking

tomorrow is endless

today we’re all clichés

I think its time to put you in the dryer

and drift away again

for another spin

the hours long when you slow down the song to a

transcendental drone

don’t get the dirt in

and I wont let the hurt hit home

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

till the trees grow back through swimming pools

my neighbor on a ladder

says he’s painting

lives above my garage

he’s always masturbating


horrifying moaning

torments me and I torture him with loud psychedelic music

and doom metal

haha fucker!

watering the lawn in the middle of the day

hey were trying to smoke this bong

I cant have privacy in my own back yard?

I half hope he falls down on the driveway

hard and down the stairs to the street

that creepy man gone

I would still be oppressed

slightly more free yet depressed about


I still got these fuckers that live with me

that yell and bother, harassing and asking my whereabouts

I don’t really care about leaving them here

if its soon

but I got to hurry

the bowls cherry and vision blurry were swerving to the


when I black out walking to the kitchen

or I’m dreaming in the hallway

in love with sleep

wherever on a mountain mushroom farming

or skating down the street

we travel lightly seeking

ancient cycles

daily knowledge and sacred bondage with her

eternal goddess

climb up into the wilderness with me and ditch

our dead mother-society

look at them down there in the city

we’ll turn the world downside up

till the trees grow back through swimming pools

censored porn

Very funny censored porn brought to you by PornHub

Friday, October 8, 2010

chiming information over loading
my top exploding
skyward head
like a cork from a champagne bottle
shot by a geyser of blood
slots in their minds dripping timeless goo essence
yes that presence
constant and pure
in that root moment of speed
there is no fear
no question or anticipation
my love is that which leaves me
on the ground
looking at clouds
haha! they float by so carelessly
beautiful passing energy
condensed milk vapor
spilling on the great blue tablecloth blanket
honey colored women
and the brown earth
dark clay men swaying to the drums playing
trance beats in the cool
heat of the night day half moon
to be sun risen orange dreams soon
melt over the glass orb
and absorb the feeling
of fading like blown smoke