Several dozen zealots’ crash hijacked hummus pies into the arrogant buckteeth of America.
Like, what Am I doing in front of a television. I wake sometimes to find myself in a recliner, parked in front of a large screen-doesn’t matter where-half naked, drooling and confused by my surroundings-doing the Gestalt verbal techniques and methods two-step. I’ve never been able to parse a series of images from my mainframe (my noggin, dig?), like those crumbling pillars of Babylon, cement and steel clamoring for the pre-frontal-don’t you forget it!
This screen dictates method. It has broken our collective narrative into non-linear form.
Alarm Clock and Atrocity go parading,
The everyday todaymotherfucker crowd: how far beyond in years as teenagers they once were. A jaded cult of the anti-hero with their Kobain, Corgan, Hunter S., Palahniuk, and Amos worshipping-a slacker nation paradigm going from limp to soggy. With the lights out…it’s less of an adventure…
Like a salesforce into the night
But the teenagers today are stuck in SMS black holes-inverse gravity-that must be filled with the mundane, an inexhaustible American resource.
The waves of cynicism threaten to crush our nuclear powered star cruiser as it navigates the vacuum along an increasingly narrow event horizon.
–This war world seems to offer no threat.
“I consume their poison in small doses like Rasputin,” I say, choking down mouthfuls of dark fluid. Then, shouting, “If It Weren’t For My Horse…I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.” Passersby avert their eyes. I’m locked in the periphery and some day they’ll have to turn and face me.
Products increase status. Fellate the credit report.
Saint Amnesia laughs, regards the Panaflex, breaking the forth wall and whispers the line (through Klonopin and Vodka haze), “Give me your youth…Accreted memories. Truncate the revelation.” She hits her mark every time. Though I seem to’ve forgotten the staging.
4-5 different stories (blotter, heavy with strychnine, square edges perforated).
The Reunion of the Warrior provides further dissemination of infotainment…breathing heavy on napes of necks, spread-eagled, marketing asshole lisping, “Give me a thrpinkle of thinamen on thith product report”-leaves words dangling like a ball gag in a tie-dyed conservative talking point; “We want newths of the attackths. Evil dewer’th mutht be brought to juth-tith.”
Sandoz is now Novartis!
But news no longer serves us. It is subjected to a process of transformation, mitigated by the medium (a medium beholden to corporate interests), so that when it finally hits our ears in varying transmissions it translates to: “CAN’T YOU SEE? YOU MUST BUY! IT IS THE ONLY WAY WE CAN INSURE VICTORY AGAINST THE TERROR.”
The TERROR isn’t terrible. Unknown and incalculable-yes. Finesse the overt through marketing and communication. Such as
I too transform in this nightmare eulogy: trousers and tweed chapeau, hybridized version of a Norman Rockwell mural appropriated and commissioned for the foyer of a clandestine Eastern European Rendition camp. I play warden of the world’s consciousness.
Injecting silicone into penis will cause it to grow by several inches.
Shirtless Arian guards in blue coveralls, muscles bulging, shinning under halogen flood lamps, break batons against meaty palms menacing the inmates. They follow me barefoot down the hall knocking against the sheet steel doors of the cells. This pageantry, a show of intimidation keeping the inmates from looking out their floor-to-ceiling windows open to the world behind them. They are focused on the hallway. We no longer need bars or razorwire.
Mandatory water-boarding for all newly arrived and deloused inmates.
Embarking upon a voyage through inner-dimensional vortices: human [d]evolution. Mind mildew. The West stumbles by the floor-to-ceiling window and glimpses the irrational momentarily. I invite the West into my chamber-smoke and mirrors-and I, Poncho (Herr Warden), smelling like a flooded suburban basement pay tribute to Saint Amnesia with un sexo anal poco y nubes de cocaine.
Jihad on The West! The West yawns, changes the channel.
We’ve been in this alternate dimension. Nine years of Afghani brown, subverting the 9th ward, Baltimore, Logan Heights, Beverly Wilshire, Juarez, Rio, Kabul, Gulf of Mexico, Gaza and Paris.
Where have we dispersed? To the absurd where the adventure is one of surveillance. Like what R-WE doing here? The salesmen ask
Sitting in front of a president, his warteeth all ivory ICBM’s. His words-read from teleprompter-depleted Uranium 30mm rounds, spalling through the body of America-an ongoing, ineffable nightmare…an intellectually negligent cowboy and an ineffectual intellectual with bleached teeth and killer hook shot playing pennies. Both somnambulant leader(s) crushed under their own celebrity. Cronies make war on all things: childhood obesity; drugs; homelessness; avian/swine influenza’s as if, in a double blind laboratory test SCIENCE were able to prove WAR a viable vaccine.
We sleepwalk through ticker-tape narratives about…
Combat wounded veterans neglected at Walter Reed and those returning vets at Fort Carson OD’d on prescription meds, painting the barrack walls with memories of dead ENEMY COMBATANTS-their russet stained kafiya’s and cerise tattooed wounds-suffer in absentia their hosts.
Stresses include killing; repeated exposure to scenes of death and injury; the constant threat of death or injury; and the dehumanizing policing operations that American soldiers have been ordered to conduct against civilian populations.
This is the Bore War.
This was actually a real diary found on the corpse of a raghead outside Falluja—written in Farsi, translated by Central Intelligence and leaked by Julian Assange.
It was before the cut in the teeth.
Ah fuck it man, shit I see everyday on MEDIA, folks’re just making up excuses to invade yer ass.
Oh! We bored and tired salesmen.
To sit and wait is such a travesty.