Flight Waiting

A girl

Writes in taut letters that run together in long streaming sentences and in great blocks, sprawled judiciously across lined pages, simultaneously self-conscious of her subject — herself — and her surroundings (airport bar) wrapped up in the milieu of new sobriety.

Orders a diet coke.

Sneezes quietly.

I sit across the aisle, eyes blood shot,

glancing sporadically toward the obscene white glow

of a broadcaster’s award-winning dentation,

gnawing in rhythm with melodious Zanex.

Flight waiting.

Girl, the same one, in form-fitting yoga pants, shoulders casually slung in a light blue v-neck sweater, punctuates heavily.

She underlines me in every sentence of her black notebook.

Page 100 gets special treatment.

Islands of words surrounded by black ball-point ink.

A candid gliphial conjurer.

I think,

mine is a reservoir I can’t quite fill.

So she pours words like concrete.

But it won’t quick dry

harden fast enough to form a foundation.

She is saddened by sadness.

Longs to be enrobed by it.

And wear it as a gown.

She flips through the pages and retraces her words, bent over the page, hair loosely dangling above the paper.

Art and Dissent

Permit yourself to imagine.

Once accomplished, travel is unrestricted, borders nonexistent, walls breached.


  • Words
  • Spray paint
  • Lines of code
  • Guitar
  • Microphone
  • Objet trouvé
  • Dance
  • March
  • Screen print
  • Sculpture
  • Décollage
  • Sticker bomb
  • Banner drop
  • Tree-sit
  • Occupy
  • Slingshot
  • Molotov
  • Barricade
  • Arm-lock
  • Film
  • Gas mask
  • Antacid and water
  • Fiction

Dissent is fluid.

And the energy generated as it passes through a medium?

Consider the variables contained in oppression, impunity and greed.

Each element behaves like velocity, temperature and density and movement is inevitable.

Our expectations of art are disrupted—subverted.

Remember the Chilean arpilleras? A people’s history of tragedy, torture and Desaparecidos woven into tapestries by garment workers—Madres, Hermanas y Abuelas—under the brutal Pinochet regime.

Listen to the music of Pete Seeger. The power of protest is embodied in song.
 An iconic image of a working class man with an inscription in black text on his banjo, “This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender.”

Image and text by Barbara Kruger. Appropriate. Borrow. Reconfigure. 
In a haunting piece by the artist we are presented with the cropped décolletage of a woman, her neck and chin exposed and the text: “We will not become what we mean to you.”

Lauren Poitras is an Oscar and Emmy nominated documentary filmmaker and journalist. She produced, “My Country, My Country,” a film that exposed the turmoil caused by the occupation of Iraq by the United States military and the effect it had on both Iraqis and American soldiers. Poitras is consistently harassed by the Department of Homeland Security. 
Detained upon entry each time she returns to the U.S. from traveling abroad.

Journalists, Filmmakers, Artists and 
truth seekers—add them to the no-fly list,
 confiscate their electronics,
 surveil all communications.

Detain them. Intimidate them.
 Harass them to death.
 To “suicide.”

Like digital activist “hacker” Aaron Swartz?

Look at Kevin Carter’s, “Famine.”

The image of a starving Sudanese child on the ground with a hooded vulture standing sentinel in the background, netted the photojournalist a Pulitzer.
 Some time later, Carter drove to a favorite overlook—blue horizon and meditative rushing river drone—taped a hose to the exhaust pipe of his vehicle.

He died of carbon monoxide poisoning at 33.

For those haunted by experience and an excess of empathy, suicide may be a final rebellion.

Recall Thich Quang Duc immolating himself in protest of the Vietnam War?

A burning rage against the machinery of apathy.

In India, a quarter of a million farmers protested seed patents through suicide by ingesting pesticide supplied to them by Monsanto.

But is that Art?

The 2011 arrest on a trumped up tax charge and subsequent, temporary disappearance of Chinese artist, Ai Weiwei, had Western supporters mounting a full campaign for his immediate release.

#releaseaiweiwei trended on Twitter.

Soon after, inexplicably, numerous shattered dynastic vases and knock offs adorn the steps of historical Chinese landmarks and consulates in Western cities.

Dissent art is situational and represents the possibility of a crucial narrative, not new but suppressed.

We’ve been locked into a singular system, which serves official culture.

Flummoxed by alternative thinking, critical thought asphyxiates under the touch screen.

The forty-pixel finger navigating through a pop culture shock architecture, finds many connections and little substance.

Nadezhda Tolokonnikova of the feminist punk group, Pussy Riot begins her two-year sentence for her participation in the bands February 2012 protest song and performance at Christ the Saviour Cathedral.

While at Penal Colony 14, Tolokno goes on hunger strike, citing the inhuman conditions and slave labor practices of the colony. She smuggles a letter, which is published later online, detailing her treatment. She is disappeared while in transit to a new prison camp in Siberia.

A single human brain is capable of processing 37 petaflops of data, rounding up, that makes one quadrillion calculations, give or take, per second.
 So, knowing the variables make it—art—difficult to quantify.

Emerging science suggests that within the next 18 months there will be a network of supercomputers capable of five times that amount of processing.

Art must penetrate this confounding and subvert the official narrative.

Open the between space.

Alyce Santoro articulated the role of Art recently in her “Manifesto for the Obvious International.” She writes: “Drawing on art’s infinite possibilities, system-defying agents are re-humanizing, de-commodifying, and debunking all manner of contrived contraries by creating barter systems, cooperative workspaces, soup kitchens, food forests, and street libraries. In societies based on an ever-intensifying quest not for peace, health, or contentment, but for “progress” (broadly defined as the drive toward maximization of personal convenience, or what social ecologist Murray Bookchin called “the fetishization of needs”)—strategies for existence that are participatory, inclusive and nonhierarchical, and that encourage the sharing of skills, ideas and resources (the maximization of meaning), are eminently subversive.”

Caveat emptor.

Temptations are everywhere.

We accept these little concessions without reading the service agreement and relinquish control for convenience—security for a sense of belonging.

In his latest collection of “quasi-essays and docufictions,“Revolutionary Brain” writer and critic Harold Jaffe offers, “Possibly the hardest factor for concerned younger artists to accept is that there will always be an incommensurateness between their imaginative efforts and results. The primary obligation is to not avert your eyes: to bear witness.”

Writers, artists and activists must refute official narratives.

The artist/revolutionary creates new methods of engagement, informing the discourse with immediacy.

Artists are in a unique position to engage directly with the established value system, call it into question and mobilize against it.

If a distinction between commercial and activist art no longer exists, the medium(s) an artist uses no longer need be relegated to a single surface or conversation.

Subversion happens while viewing.

Walls disintegrate and become canvas.

The canvas extends beyond the inner city, barrio, border to the wild.

Courage of the imagining mind.

Everett Collection Library of Congress March 2010

RIP Wuornos, Serial Killer

Wournos, Aileen

Final Interview

October 8, 2002

Florida State Prison, Bradford County, Florida

I was benighted amidst the yellow birch, conifer and sugar maple in the forests of the Midwest.

There I ran with the squirrels. In my child’s voice the song of the Scarlet Tanager echoed, harbinger of spring, my bared toes massaged the loam under hemlock and black oak.

The sky was wide. It offered a seamless verticality.

When the sun hung above the horizon, I felt, in my child’s body, a tensing of muscles, as if I was lifting something heavy.

Dirt and asphalt cut black scars through the hills.

For me, life was a matter of straying from the shoulder of roads.

Soon the forest gave way to concrete and the broken skyline of cities.

There I met the gritted teeth of the world.

There is a dream memory of me, floating above my child’s body.

It haunts me at night when the alcohol wears off.

I am motionless and lying on black, star print sheets, staring through the popcorn ceiling, peering at a life lived rogue, and a future I can’t imagine.

No, can’t hardly think of me an old woman. Ain’t no getting old.

I heard the nauseating sound of a chord struck, like strings out of tune on an old Dobro guitar.

In the dream memory I can make out his hairline, blocking out the dim sixty-watt hanging from the fixture, his thumbs pressing into my wrists, smell of his stale cigarette and Schlitz breath and see that stars of Dixie tattooed on his neck—my mother’s father—and a bright white light erupted from above.

Not until I heard my grandfather was dead, did the pieces fall together.

And your Father?

[Father was a pedo. Hung hisself in the Pen.]

The grace of Jesus. That’s what I thought it was then, that’s what I call it now, waiting here to die.

The light was a signal and a map.

Codified in pain, I was tasked—me—with removing from the world eight demonic entities.

This was a quest I couldn’t comprehend nor deny.

If you asked me, I would tell you, in my own street talk way, that I shifted from child to woman.

Like a manual shift transmission.

Fast and smooth like that Camaro I boosted with Tracy when we was on the lam from that fucking piece of S.H.I.T. Jasper.

Pressed, I would foreswear my childhood.

That the shift never occurred—was imperceptible—and that I was born an angel, with womanly parts and disposition.

You had a child at fourteen you gave up for adoption?

Ain’t gonna talk about that, okay?

No prob.

Here, this is where we enter the world of the transaction.

Somewhere, inside me, a vacuum.

They said I was too immature to grasp the finality of death.

Prosecutor was a condescending prick. ‘Scuse me for sayin’ so.

But my awareness stemmed not from a lack of maturity but a diamond honed sense of survival.

To avoid pain and embrace the reptilian.

Escaping pain became centrifugal.

A damaged and primitive child, I slipped through the teeth of the world and bared my own.

When I was at County I met an Indian lady, looked me in the eye and told me I was a container.

F-ing Tupperware, I says to her?

No, she told me that I contained everything; anguish, loneliness, sadness, anger and love poured into the hollow point between my sternum and above my pubic bone.

Trippy right?

Please continue.


Learning eventually that the foundation would always shift but the center wouldn’t never change, you know?

I rode the road.

Offered myself.

And the in between plushness of death, extended to the men I encountered.

Under cypress and the smell of wet soil, diesel and aftershave, I absorbed them into mine.

Gave my tender love to Boys who later died under the oily umbrella of a Kuwaiti sky.

In the low-lying hitchhiker’s thumb of the continent, skirting gators in the glades, lessons in the secrets of the transaction were practiced.

Meanwhile, I looked for the signs and signals of the eight.

See, violence in America is idiosyncratic.

I was further enlightened with a pistol in my rectum.

Back of some bastard’s Buick Le Sabre.

Hell fire of rubbing alcohol to wash away the evidence, his sin.

He was my first and when the hammer hit the firing pin, I shot true, relieving the world of the first of eight demons.

This was in?

Must have been ’round Thanksgiving, ’89.

Then it was the principle. The deputy. The businessman. The pastor.

You got any cigarettes?


Sure. Here.


Thanks [shrugs and motions towards her restraints].




That upon leaving this world I would be met by the holy trinity.

Those spirits would bear the names: sodium thiopental; Pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride.


What about the other homicides?

When I met them, each of them, my muscles tensed, mouth filled up with hot spit like when you’re about to puke. I’d hear with clarity the strumming of a badly out of tune guitar.

The notes, was always sour.

But it’s how I knew.

The dance I had to perform with them was always terribly painful and violent.

Getting punched in the mouth. Raped in the, you know, in the rear…

But I had faith.

With God. My Jesus was by my side, guiding my hand, sending those demons back to hell.


The used-car salesman. Unemployed high-school coach. Tax preparer. Bar tender from Pensacola.

Before I killed them, they asked me my secret.

What is your secret?

Call me Lee…

Top Twenty Semi-Context Free Concepts Purloined from John Berger


  1. Political resistance often begins in a meanwhile.
  2. The consumer is essentially somebody who feels, or is made to feel, lost, unless he or she is consuming.”
  3. Once, long ago, a future existed.
  5. The Eternal is meow.

The most beautiful sea

hasn’t been crossed yet.

The most beautiful child

hasn’t grown up yet.

Our most beautiful days

We haven’t seen yet.

And the most beautiful words I wanted to tell you

I haven’t said yet. – Hikmet

  1. One was born into this life to share the time that repeatedly exists between moments: the time of Becoming, before Being risks to confront one yet again with undefeated despair.
  2. In the war the dark is on nobody’s side; in love the dark confirms that we are together.
  3. Spray. Paint. The. Walls.
  4. Illuminated moments arrive by way of tenderness and love.
  5. Political resistance often begins in a meanwhile.
  6. The consumer is essentially somebody who feels, or is made to feel, lost, unless he or she is consuming.
  7. Are we approaching disconnections which amount to what can be called madness when found in the minds of those who believe they can rule the planet?
  8. Where do birds go when it rains?
  9. The wind got up in the night and took our plans away (Chinese proverb).
  10. There is a very direct relationship today between the minutes of meetings and minutes of agony.
  11. Happiness is what pierces grief.
  12. Spay/Neuter
  13. The memory of the dead existing in timelessness may be thought of as a form of imagination concerning the possible, the imagination is close to (resides in) God; but I do not know how.

i.)             God is an astronaut

ii.)            God is an anachronism

iii.)           God is a frozen goat’s milk yogurt honey lavender popsicle 


  1. Purchase a large 20’ x 10’ strip of painting canvas from local hardware store. Add one of the above quotes using can of Krylon. Display barely legible banner from freeway overpass. Try not to die while hanging banner.

a.)  Feel more alive

b.)  Feel less dead

c.)  Feel between breaths


 *1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8, 10, 11, 12, 13, 16, 17, 19 from John Berger’s Hold Everything Dear. 



China Grove Press Literary Journal



The premiere issue of China Grove Literary Journal is currently available and features my quasi-essay, anti-connectivity piece, In Extremis – Opting Out. 

You can read it alongside talented, imaginative writers like Ellen Gilchrist and Michael Farris Smith as well as previously unpublished work by Eudora Welty and Mark Twain. 

It is also a nominee for the Ellen Gilchrist Award. 

Pick up a copy at http://www.chinagrovepress.com/china-grove-a-literary-journal/ 


Navigating the Void O.S.T. ~ ARGH! the Virus

Words give meaning to movement.
We’re part of the virus. 
Argh the virus.

The Samizdat.

Snow Crash.

The Five-and-a-half-minute hallway.


The Parrot: terminal brain crash image and the Godelian Shock Input (two great tastes that taste great together) strange loop, Escher staircase, tangled hierarchy, heterachy, and causality flipper.

Observe closely, the Shepard-Risset glissando in PINK FLOYD’s Echoes.

Neverender descent/ascent in pitch.
VOID transitions exponentially from the silence threshold to maximum amplitude,
there at 500 to 1000hz (one octave)
and continues decreasing in amplitude again.
Melting out of body,
sense warping sound.

Click Image Above to hear your brainstem melting


That when you hear music, you are experiencing something that has always been integrated.

Part of you.

That something is magic.

Similar to how those beats compel the feet, the words complete the circuit.

All of us,

PCB boards waiting for a current to carry us to the next space.

Encounters of the fourth kind: The supercollider on the Staircase; reading the daily mail; straight to hell boy…

For your delectation, a-walkin’ through the landscape of sagging flesh from our resident fiend, Rupert who is long overdue for a bottle of ‘69 Chateau de Krepotkin.

It’ll make yer face RAIN..… .. … .. … ..

*Click image to view video. Video will self instruct.

Permit Yourself to Imagine

Permit yourself to imagine.

Once accomplished, travel is unrestricted, borders nonexistent, walls breached.

How? Slingshot.  Molotov. Spray paint. Lines of code. Guitar. Microphone.

Crisis or socially activist art offers the possibility of a crucial narrative, which is not new but suppressed.

We’ve been locked into a singular system, which serves official culture.

We are flummoxed by thinking alternatively. Any alternative.

Art must penetrate this numbness. Subvert the official narrative, cut through the advertising and propaganda. Negate marketing. Opening the between space.

Temptations are everywhere. In fact, you’ve likely accepted most without reading the service agreement. We relinquish control for convenience and security: freedom in exchange for a superficial sense of belonging.

But there is this: “One was born into this life to share the time that repeatedly exists between moments: the time of Becoming, before Being risks to confront one yet again with undefeated despair.” – John Berger

As a writer, art critic and political activist, John Berger offers a point of reference in the relational dynamic that artists have to the world around them. More importantly, Berger is representative of the type of progressive writer whose work is driven by a desire to confront the status quo. Refusing to participate in prescribed ideals of marketplace and authority, the artist/writer/revolutionary creates new methods of engagement.

Situational art is confrontational, “the immoral subversion of the existing order.” It informs the discourse with immediacy. Artists are in a unique position to engage directly with the established value system, call it into question and mobilize against it.

If a distinction between commercial and activist art no longer exists than the medium(s) an artist uses no longer need to be relegated to a single surface or conversation. The subversion happens while viewing.

The Molotov cocktail is the canvas. The canvas is our body, the inner city, barrio. ‘Hood.

Courage of the imagining mind.


The proceeding manifesto was a response to a series of art pieces produced by Enrique Lugo, AKA Chikle–a long time friend and collaborator–to be included as a text for his group show at the San Diego Repertory Theater. This is simultaneously a reaction of a reaction to both the art presented there and to the musical A Hammer, A Bell, and a Song to Sing, now playing at the Rep inspired by the life and work of Pete Seeger. The show will be up January 10–29, 2012 on the Lyceum Stage.

Articulating the Pocket

Designer Rebel

Espousing Jihad Chic: Olive Drab Shemagh Kafiya; Duo-tone Ray Ban Wayfarer Sunglasses; Desert-Camo iPhone Case; Versace bomb belt; hand-sewn Cavalli bandolier; Kalashnikov w/ USB and headphone jack (dig the latest Faakhir Mehmood); KidRobot branded SIM-card reprogrammer (screen printed to look like an IED). Balaà, coolest mutha fuckin’ insurgent in Karachi.


Federal Bureau of In Your Face Book

The F.B.I. has entered the social space creating phony profiles in an effort to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit, or otherwise neutralize dissidents.  Distant acquaintances and “friends” who post: at the gym; waiting in line; griping; “quoting” Maya Angelou and sharing pictures in grammatically/syntactically incorrect prose are in fact bored and overpaid analysts @ Quantico.


Raised Lettering

Machine gun sight’s markings include “2COR4:6” and “JN8:12’. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians reads: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,” and John 8:12 reads: ‘I am the light of the world.”

Optics guide soldiers in more ways than death.


Salutations “Faggot”

As William S. <Last Name With held> left the Cannon House Office Building he spat on Rep. Emanuel Cleaver (D-Mo.) in protest against healthcare. For further emphasis he called Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA.) a “faggot.” Fortunately he won’t be denied care because of his Tourettes—a pre-existing condition—and “uninformed” hasn’t made it yet as a valid disorder in the DSM IV TR.

So Get Up-ah…

A Nov. 26 article in the District edition of Local Living incorrectly stated a Public Enemy song declared 9/11 a joke. The song refers to 911, the emergency phone number. However, both depend entirely on successful delivery of the punch line.


Shitty Econ 2010

Goldman Sachs—financial alchemists—transmuting bullshit into billions.


How To Be An Effective Dissident

Step 7 is predicated on the idea that repressive societies are always “listening” to dissidents using bugs, wiretapping, and keyword and proxy surveillance.

An addendum to Step 7: Assume ALL societies are repressive.

Instead of counting calories or decimal points on pay stubs, begin counting cameras.


God <3’s Ass-play

Westborough Baptist Church “Pastor” Fred Phelps A.K.A., The Tall Man, is rumored to have in his possession an alarming collection of erotic contraband including anal beads, nipple clamps, dildos and cases of amyl nitrate in various dispensers—capsules, droppers, pressurized nasal inhalers. The anal beads prove to be the most fascinating of his collection and range in diameter from marble and jawbreaker sizes to melon and grapefruit.


If Critics Wrote Obituaries

Man kills self, wife and children is as familiar feeling as it is difficult to pinpoint. A man killing his family is a welcome reminder that murder suicide doesn’t have to be bombastic to feel huge and important. Though not quite coming out of nowhere, this murder suicide seems like a surprise gift—a striking consolidation of societal malaise.


The New Postal Service

Mutant carrier pigeons have revolutionized the postal industry. Paid in Genetically Modified corn, the Condor-sized birds are able to boast the lowest cartage fees. However, their feces have crushed subcompacts, killing passengers and causing major traffic congestion near the rookeries. Presently, they have been relieved of duty until an equestrian type “bun-bag” can be successfully affixed to their massive fan-shaped tails.


Vacation Proposal

Prepared for: 30 Million Dollar Mercenary

By: McNamara Vacation Inc.

After a splash in the surf at Labadee, disembark Royal Caribbean ports-of-call—Lauderdale or St. Maarten. Lear-and-land Matara. Snorkel Nilaveli.

Four-poster suite @ Unawatuna. Guided MP3 air-tour on a Mil Mi-24 over Kilinochchi. See water buffalo, paddy fields; anticipate possible use of 12.7 mm nose cannon.

New York Times Travel Guide recommended best ‘best places’ to visit 2010.

Addendum: Additional Pepper Coast tour hosted by Xe on chartered patrol boat with 4 days, 3 nights in West Point for homemade napalm classes (diesel fuel and polystyrene foam provided). Depart Port-Gentil, arrive Cape Mesurado—dinner aboard petroleum tanker No Bid Transport. Package includes intimate tour of double hull ‘Xe rendition client’ holding area by Erik Prince.


Rick James: Cold Blooded
[1] Through his autopsy it was discovered singer and songwriter Rick James was under the influence of alprazolam, diazepam, bupropion, citalopram, hydrocodone, digoxin, chlorpheniramine, methamphetamine and cocaine.[2] However the coroner would go on to say; “None of the drugs or drug combinations were found to be at levels that were life threatening in and of themselves. The cause of death was ruled acute cardiac dysfunction due to idiopathic cardiomyopathy, or an enlarged heart.” And that, “He didn’t die of a drug overdose.” [3] In conclusion, Rick James died from having an excessive amount of heart.

War Splicing

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.

Significant Stresses.

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.

Concatenation: EverydayandeverydayMRIoveramonthagotoprovemyhumanitybelongstotheCorpornation.

Wading through the Static

You too can look ten years younger – in 60 minutes no less! Tha’s righ’, REDUCE wrinkles, REDUCE crow’s feet, REDUCE laugh lines! Your gun turret mounted Toyota Yaris can get something like 40 miles per gallon in the city AND with its 50 caliber machine gun, trips to the drive thru have never been FASTER…As if all the static on the net and snow of television weren’t enough…Condoleezza warns against Armenia Bill, a bill that declares the massacre of 1.5 million Armenians to be genocide…Turkey, of course disputes the claim [like 1.5 million Armenians just dropped dead from the ‘chaos and confusion’ of the collapsing Ottoman Empire during WWI] and the guys in System of A Down must be tugging furiously at their elaborate goatees and cursing Rice for not being more granular. What could you expect from a country named after a bird that drowns in the rain from looking up during a storm?

Just another example of imperialism and the power of the military industrial complex sweeping unsightly ‘dust’ under the atrocity carpet, where ghosts of Darfur await release, 800,000 dead Iraqi civilians from the illegal invasion await justice and Americans prep for the x-mas buying season. This little capitalist piggy laments; It’ll be a tight year dear…might not be able to get Jimmy that new X-Box 360…poor little Sally won’t be getting that iPod Touch…we’ve got this foreclosure that is inevitable and it looks like the guys down in the factory are going to walk off the job again cause all of our parts that were made in China have been recalled…it’s a rough existence to be middle class and brown/black/yellow/mostly white Dear, yes – rough indeed. The new Radiohead will be in my inbox this morning…tha’s nice honey, burn a couple copies for the carpool group….