I am Ned Flanders!
Which Simpsons Character are YOU?
Social scientific inquiry into liberation theory, scientific socialism and critical theory perspectives on contemporary culture.
Thursday, January 30, 2003
This is my poem of conscience. Maybe the President will read it and it'll make him choke on a pretzel or something.
I saw Viggo on Charlie Rose wearing a home-made t-shirt that said, "no more blood for oil"
I saw the way they explained him away as if an obstruction to the escapism of entertainment
I saw the pseudo-intellectual post-modernist writing another page to his autobiography at the bar at the coffee shop
And I wondered if the chapters of his book will be about writing at the bar at the coffee shop
I saw the children rejoicing in Palestine and Iraq at the prospect of free candy and what appeared to be Amerika's demise
I also saw the prayer service
The zealots praying, "Dear God, kill the fuckers that did this"
Or praying, "Dear Allah, be with them in this time of need"
I watched in horror as the world melted into the palm of a dick-tator's hand
I heard them saying, "We killed them to save them" and citing Numbers 31:17
I saw the doves and hawks competing for breadcrumbs thrown at the dirt by the tourists of terror
I saw the candles, the infinite candles, melting and the wax blending and pouring over into the flower box
I watched in quiet desperation as storm troopers with gas masks trampled the flowers that once grew
I saw the dispossessed huddled in the corners of Western society with pockets full of herbs and heads full of ideas
For a fleeting moment I could see a beautiful existance where the only law is that of egalitarianism
I watched my friend spike his hair into a mowhawk because it made him feel like a righteous social misfit
I watched and I watched and I watched television in my angst ridden boredom
I played with fire because I thought it would change things
I disguised myself as a Democrat and wrote angry letters of protest to Hillary Clinton
I hid my face behind a black dandana like a villan in an old Western melodrama
I did everything I could
But Amerika still wouldn't see
*War Is a Joke... and I'm not Laughing*
I saw Viggo on Charlie Rose wearing a home-made t-shirt that said, "no more blood for oil"
I saw the way they explained him away as if an obstruction to the escapism of entertainment
I saw the pseudo-intellectual post-modernist writing another page to his autobiography at the bar at the coffee shop
And I wondered if the chapters of his book will be about writing at the bar at the coffee shop
I saw the children rejoicing in Palestine and Iraq at the prospect of free candy and what appeared to be Amerika's demise
I also saw the prayer service
The zealots praying, "Dear God, kill the fuckers that did this"
Or praying, "Dear Allah, be with them in this time of need"
I watched in horror as the world melted into the palm of a dick-tator's hand
I heard them saying, "We killed them to save them" and citing Numbers 31:17
I saw the doves and hawks competing for breadcrumbs thrown at the dirt by the tourists of terror
I saw the candles, the infinite candles, melting and the wax blending and pouring over into the flower box
I watched in quiet desperation as storm troopers with gas masks trampled the flowers that once grew
I saw the dispossessed huddled in the corners of Western society with pockets full of herbs and heads full of ideas
For a fleeting moment I could see a beautiful existance where the only law is that of egalitarianism
I watched my friend spike his hair into a mowhawk because it made him feel like a righteous social misfit
I watched and I watched and I watched television in my angst ridden boredom
I played with fire because I thought it would change things
I disguised myself as a Democrat and wrote angry letters of protest to Hillary Clinton
I hid my face behind a black dandana like a villan in an old Western melodrama
I did everything I could
But Amerika still wouldn't see
Wednesday, January 29, 2003
I support this:
From: Sam Hamill, founder of Copper Canyon Press, Port
Townsend WA
January 19, 2003
Dear Friends and Fellow Poets:
When I picked up my mail and saw the letter marked
"The White House," I felt no joy. Rather I was
overcome by a kind nausea as I read the card enclosed:
Laura Bush
requests the pleasure of your company
at a reception and
White House Symposium on
"Poetry and the American Voice"
on Wednesday, February 12, 2003
at one o'clock
Only the day before I had read a lengthy report on the
President's proposed "Shock and Awe" attack on Iraq,
calling for saturation bombing that would be like the
firebombing of Dresden or Tokyo, killing countless
innocent civilians.
I believe the only legitimate response to such a
morally bankrupt and unconscionable idea is to
reconstitute a Poets Against the War movement like the
one organized to speak out against the war in Vietnam.
I am asking every poet to speak up for the conscience
of our country and lend his or her name to our
petition against this war, and to make February 12 a
day of Poetry Against the War. We will compile an
anthology of protest to be presented to the White
House on that afternoon.
Please submit your name and a poem or statement of
conscience to:
kokua@olympus.net
There is little time to organize and compile. I urge
you to pass along this letter to any poets you know.
Please join me in making February12 a day when the
White House can truly hear the voices of American
poets.
Sam Hamill
From: Sam Hamill, founder of Copper Canyon Press, Port
Townsend WA
January 19, 2003
Dear Friends and Fellow Poets:
When I picked up my mail and saw the letter marked
"The White House," I felt no joy. Rather I was
overcome by a kind nausea as I read the card enclosed:
Laura Bush
requests the pleasure of your company
at a reception and
White House Symposium on
"Poetry and the American Voice"
on Wednesday, February 12, 2003
at one o'clock
Only the day before I had read a lengthy report on the
President's proposed "Shock and Awe" attack on Iraq,
calling for saturation bombing that would be like the
firebombing of Dresden or Tokyo, killing countless
innocent civilians.
I believe the only legitimate response to such a
morally bankrupt and unconscionable idea is to
reconstitute a Poets Against the War movement like the
one organized to speak out against the war in Vietnam.
I am asking every poet to speak up for the conscience
of our country and lend his or her name to our
petition against this war, and to make February 12 a
day of Poetry Against the War. We will compile an
anthology of protest to be presented to the White
House on that afternoon.
Please submit your name and a poem or statement of
conscience to:
kokua@olympus.net
There is little time to organize and compile. I urge
you to pass along this letter to any poets you know.
Please join me in making February12 a day when the
White House can truly hear the voices of American
poets.
Sam Hamill
Tuesday, January 28, 2003
I'm at school right now. It's my second day of my second semester of college. I'm liking the classes I've had so far: Environmental Science, Philosophy, Sociology, Art and coming up at 1:15 is Anthropology. I'm interested in all those subjects, so I don't think I'll have a problem with boring classes this semester. Anyway, yall don't care about my schooling. Here's a poem. I probably could have structured the lines a little better (more sentence like) so they made more sense, but what ya gonna do.
Friday bleeds into Saturday which bleeds into Sunday which fades into a deep blue Monday where the sun refuses to shine and the street lights only cast shadows
8am is a black widow spider enticing her prey, luring him with sex and excitment into the alleyway where no light can touch
The red illumination that burns the tired dreamer's eyes and scolds the tireless wanderer with a wage-system notion of scheduling seems bright against the black hole of digital clock
A post-industrial conception of time and the unnatural color of neon lights makes sure we don't step out of our roles as zombies in a made-for-television horror flick
They'll pass our act off as entertainment
A life size flea circus to sour the taste of bread and roses
But there's nothing entertaining about watching lemmings follow eachother over a cliff and into the pyre of Gehenna after you've seen it so many times
Even violent stupidity gets boring after a while
And so the half-hour-time-slot scheduling for the after-hours wage-system where we all pay mental rent ultimately defeats itself
Like a snake whose motto is "Join or Die" struggline to swallow its own tail whose motto is "Don't Tread On Me"
Time burns a hole in time and the natural illumination comes shining through
Humanity has come full circle
We've turned back the clocks again to the tribal ways of green anarchy
But have we only tipped the hourglass on its head
Of have we smashed it and scattered the sand over the cemetary lawn like the ashes of a friend who we all used to know but eventually somehow lost touch with
*This Watch Says Yr Blind*
Friday bleeds into Saturday which bleeds into Sunday which fades into a deep blue Monday where the sun refuses to shine and the street lights only cast shadows
8am is a black widow spider enticing her prey, luring him with sex and excitment into the alleyway where no light can touch
The red illumination that burns the tired dreamer's eyes and scolds the tireless wanderer with a wage-system notion of scheduling seems bright against the black hole of digital clock
A post-industrial conception of time and the unnatural color of neon lights makes sure we don't step out of our roles as zombies in a made-for-television horror flick
They'll pass our act off as entertainment
A life size flea circus to sour the taste of bread and roses
But there's nothing entertaining about watching lemmings follow eachother over a cliff and into the pyre of Gehenna after you've seen it so many times
Even violent stupidity gets boring after a while
And so the half-hour-time-slot scheduling for the after-hours wage-system where we all pay mental rent ultimately defeats itself
Like a snake whose motto is "Join or Die" struggline to swallow its own tail whose motto is "Don't Tread On Me"
Time burns a hole in time and the natural illumination comes shining through
Humanity has come full circle
We've turned back the clocks again to the tribal ways of green anarchy
But have we only tipped the hourglass on its head
Of have we smashed it and scattered the sand over the cemetary lawn like the ashes of a friend who we all used to know but eventually somehow lost touch with
Sunday, January 26, 2003
a mouse scurries around on the floor on which you walk lightly and gracefully
you are watching every step
careful at every corner
a mouse runs around trying to be the last ray of hope
you are walking slowly
the mouse's feet move swiftly
you step down and for a moment are distracted by the beaming sunlight in the stained glass window
the mouse stops at the wrong second
and it's all over
but we all gotta go sometime
you are watching every step
careful at every corner
a mouse runs around trying to be the last ray of hope
you are walking slowly
the mouse's feet move swiftly
you step down and for a moment are distracted by the beaming sunlight in the stained glass window
the mouse stops at the wrong second
and it's all over
but we all gotta go sometime
Friday, January 24, 2003
Go to Rocket Coffee tomorrow at 9pm and see the Jesse Ames Experience. It'll be worth it (I think).
Also, go to Visual Studies Workshop at 7pm tomorrow to see init.two featuring Joe+N among others.
I'm gonna try and do both.
Also, go to Visual Studies Workshop at 7pm tomorrow to see init.two featuring Joe+N among others.
I'm gonna try and do both.
Thursday, January 23, 2003
http://www.infowars.com - I scare myself sometimes at how many things I agree with these people on. Filter through the racism, sexism, capitalism, homophobia and religious dogma and you've got some pretty brutal conspiracy theories that will keep the status quo on their toes.
Monday, January 20, 2003
*MLK: A Memorandum*
Lots of people let locusts fly out of their mouths
Saying they know Jesus
So-called Christians with self-serving answers to What Would Jesus Do
Jesus would attack Iraq, Jesus was kill Saddam Houssein
But nobody knew Jesus of what or who he was
The so-called Christians say "know Jesus, know God"
But the Gospel of Thomas says "know yrself, know God"
Self knowlege is knowlege of the divine
Take a stand for justice
That's all Jesus was really saying
Dr. King took a stand against Vietnam and the FBI killed him
Dr. King was no killed by some cracker with three names like James Earl Ray
He was hunted down on the Poor People's Campaign Trail and in a brief moment of weakness outside his hotel room was slaughtered by the military-industrial establishment
The President was LBJ, Disciple of Christ
Would Jesus Use Agent Orange?
Rest In Peace Reverend King
Friday, January 17, 2003
Genious is relative. Celebrity is ridiculous. Consciousness is a lie.
I
Circles of sadness form around my eyes
I'm so alone when I'm without you
The hopeful swaying waves
Bring the driftwood that hits my feet
As it goes tumbling by on the water
The universe implodes around my mind
Inducing an alternative state of consciousness
Recalling the meaning of star-crossed lovers
A drop of blood in a bucket of tears
God's fatalistic snares
The dying roses that wash up against the shore
I held on up to you
But instead you gently kissed my neck
The circles of sadness form
Like Saturn's rings
Growing every minute I'm away from you
When yr near me again
I'll hold you like my shield from the radioactive world
You'll be my shelter from its deadly rays
And then I'll stare into the face of the moon and laugh
At the idea that whoever's face it is up there all molded in blue cheese
Has never felt the way I do at that moment
But (s)he's always been alone
And (s)he always will be
II
I wrap myself in the night sky like a blanket
Hoping maybe I'm delusional enough to believe it'll keep me warm
When it's so cold without you
I wish the summer would just melt everything
Including our hearts
And then we'd walk slowly to the irregular beating in our chests
I wish a lot of things
But there are never enough shooting stars to strap yr wishes on
Until one day you wake up to a giant meteor plummeting toward yr home
The great red shift
Or else you wake up to realize that all yr dreams have died
Suffocated when you weren't looking
And yr too old to start making new wishes
That's how people die alone
*The Stars Are Really...*
I
Circles of sadness form around my eyes
I'm so alone when I'm without you
The hopeful swaying waves
Bring the driftwood that hits my feet
As it goes tumbling by on the water
The universe implodes around my mind
Inducing an alternative state of consciousness
Recalling the meaning of star-crossed lovers
A drop of blood in a bucket of tears
God's fatalistic snares
The dying roses that wash up against the shore
I held on up to you
But instead you gently kissed my neck
The circles of sadness form
Like Saturn's rings
Growing every minute I'm away from you
When yr near me again
I'll hold you like my shield from the radioactive world
You'll be my shelter from its deadly rays
And then I'll stare into the face of the moon and laugh
At the idea that whoever's face it is up there all molded in blue cheese
Has never felt the way I do at that moment
But (s)he's always been alone
And (s)he always will be
II
I wrap myself in the night sky like a blanket
Hoping maybe I'm delusional enough to believe it'll keep me warm
When it's so cold without you
I wish the summer would just melt everything
Including our hearts
And then we'd walk slowly to the irregular beating in our chests
I wish a lot of things
But there are never enough shooting stars to strap yr wishes on
Until one day you wake up to a giant meteor plummeting toward yr home
The great red shift
Or else you wake up to realize that all yr dreams have died
Suffocated when you weren't looking
And yr too old to start making new wishes
That's how people die alone
Thursday, January 16, 2003
Wednesday, January 15, 2003
These people don't like International ANSWER (Act Now to Stop War and End Racism). I don't really like them either. http://authoritarianopportunistswhocozyuptogenocidaldictators-forpeace.org/ Should still Fight War, Not Wars, though.
Thursday, January 09, 2003
A New Poem By My Of Deep Spiritual and Social Significance...
Places like this are the pits we keep ourselves hidden inside
They're the blue lawns where discontent festers in a boiling caldron of pus
These places are the world between the curtain and the window
The negative space that escapes notice on the all-too-oft occation
The trick is not hearing the notes she is playing
But discovering the subtlties of those she isn't
Spiritually charged - finding rhythms - ready for battles
My feet in harmony witht he floor and the floor with the foundation and the foundation with the earth
And the earth - the metaphysical glue that connects us all on some higher level
Sharing the air we breathe
Becoming what is self-evident
It's all too obvious
I collapse in a heap of alienation on the couch of my malcontent
I disappear into the pattern like a divine chamelion
I can be quite invisible when I'm interested in being so
My body is still but I'm always in motion
Ona Move!
Discovering the Shangra La in my mind
Electrons passed through a wire connect us by the sound of our breathing
A cosmic energy charging the lines that strech like tentacles across every corner of the earth
Our questions remain unanswered as our answers reveal themselves in metaphors for the natural world (the matriarch) and our collective consciousness (the patriarch)
When our dream's been deferred for too long we strike out in rage against the system that shackled us and then left our bodies to become corpses
And we will no longer pay mental rent to the clergy of the last Aryan Empire
Our minds are our own
*A Part You Can't Touch*
Places like this are the pits we keep ourselves hidden inside
They're the blue lawns where discontent festers in a boiling caldron of pus
These places are the world between the curtain and the window
The negative space that escapes notice on the all-too-oft occation
The trick is not hearing the notes she is playing
But discovering the subtlties of those she isn't
Spiritually charged - finding rhythms - ready for battles
My feet in harmony witht he floor and the floor with the foundation and the foundation with the earth
And the earth - the metaphysical glue that connects us all on some higher level
Sharing the air we breathe
Becoming what is self-evident
It's all too obvious
I collapse in a heap of alienation on the couch of my malcontent
I disappear into the pattern like a divine chamelion
I can be quite invisible when I'm interested in being so
My body is still but I'm always in motion
Ona Move!
Discovering the Shangra La in my mind
Electrons passed through a wire connect us by the sound of our breathing
A cosmic energy charging the lines that strech like tentacles across every corner of the earth
Our questions remain unanswered as our answers reveal themselves in metaphors for the natural world (the matriarch) and our collective consciousness (the patriarch)
When our dream's been deferred for too long we strike out in rage against the system that shackled us and then left our bodies to become corpses
And we will no longer pay mental rent to the clergy of the last Aryan Empire
Our minds are our own
Monday, January 06, 2003
I haven't posted a poem in a while so here's a cute little one.
Somewhere near where the march of stagnance meets the stagnance of marching there are kids holding hands
Their eyes barely open
Their mouths pursed or streched into a smile
Caught somewhere between discontent and infinite ecstacy
The chemically treated grass that grows on the other side looks greener and more fashionable than ours
The sun rises on their side
But the sunset is beautiful on ours
Somewhere in the doldrums of existance after loss
There is a rainbow like a gift after the rain
And it feels like it's about to come pouring down in sheets
There's a decision I've been struggling hard to make
How can I decide where I'm going when all I want to do is stop going anywhere
There's always dreams
In my dreams I'm holding her
In my dreams I'm beautiful
In my dreams the sky is yellow
But it's only a dream
*Sitting on the Fence*
Somewhere near where the march of stagnance meets the stagnance of marching there are kids holding hands
Their eyes barely open
Their mouths pursed or streched into a smile
Caught somewhere between discontent and infinite ecstacy
The chemically treated grass that grows on the other side looks greener and more fashionable than ours
The sun rises on their side
But the sunset is beautiful on ours
Somewhere in the doldrums of existance after loss
There is a rainbow like a gift after the rain
And it feels like it's about to come pouring down in sheets
There's a decision I've been struggling hard to make
How can I decide where I'm going when all I want to do is stop going anywhere
There's always dreams
In my dreams I'm holding her
In my dreams I'm beautiful
In my dreams the sky is yellow
But it's only a dream
Friday, December 27, 2002
Just got back from Niagra Falls vacation. Went to see the Modigliani exhibit at the Albright Knox Museum. It's funny how much more attention someone will pay to something if they've paid money to see it. I've never seen so many goatees and berets in my life. The AK has a Duchamp, though ("Why Don't You Sneeze..." or something like that). I was happy about that.
Tuesday, December 24, 2002
I've got a few things to say...
1) I LOVE not celebrating Christmas. Hahaha, suckers! Don't be a corporate slave. buynothing!
2) All my energy is artificial. Instead of sleep and food, my veins are flowing with caffene and ginseng. I'm sorry. I just can't get to sleep.
3) Know what? Sunday was great, despite locking my keys in the car. Thanks to the homeless dude that hung out with me and you know who you are.
4) Not sure if I mentioned it before but Hope and Fear is really good. I saw him play at the Against Me show. Check him out if you get the chance. Also, City of Caterpillar was mad chill on Sunday. I love detournment.
5) a new poem...
Light the flaxen wick with the passionate fire that burns deep inside you
I've seen it before
You can be quite beauiful when you need to be
As if the butterfly has landed softly on yr cold nose and struggles to decide where her wings will take her next
The light switch on the wall
Metaphysical objects that make more than sense
The one thing God can't do in Her dreams is adjust light levels
In our dreams we are gods
Is it true that thw whole world and everything in it is a metaphor for something else?
Why am I afraid when I realize I'm dream?
Is it because I fear what monsters I might conjure from deep within my convoluted sub-consciousness?
Standing like a statue on the crest of a wave
Marvel in marble
Not just being, but becomming
This is where fear and alienation meet
The disgusting corners of the mind
Where the winds of consciousness have swept dusty memories
1) I LOVE not celebrating Christmas. Hahaha, suckers! Don't be a corporate slave. buynothing!
2) All my energy is artificial. Instead of sleep and food, my veins are flowing with caffene and ginseng. I'm sorry. I just can't get to sleep.
3) Know what? Sunday was great, despite locking my keys in the car. Thanks to the homeless dude that hung out with me and you know who you are.
4) Not sure if I mentioned it before but Hope and Fear is really good. I saw him play at the Against Me show. Check him out if you get the chance. Also, City of Caterpillar was mad chill on Sunday. I love detournment.
5) a new poem...
*Teetering Around 4*
Light the flaxen wick with the passionate fire that burns deep inside you
I've seen it before
You can be quite beauiful when you need to be
As if the butterfly has landed softly on yr cold nose and struggles to decide where her wings will take her next
The light switch on the wall
Metaphysical objects that make more than sense
The one thing God can't do in Her dreams is adjust light levels
In our dreams we are gods
Is it true that thw whole world and everything in it is a metaphor for something else?
Why am I afraid when I realize I'm dream?
Is it because I fear what monsters I might conjure from deep within my convoluted sub-consciousness?
Standing like a statue on the crest of a wave
Marvel in marble
Not just being, but becomming
This is where fear and alienation meet
The disgusting corners of the mind
Where the winds of consciousness have swept dusty memories
Monday, December 16, 2002
*The Future Says She Loves You*
by Mitch Jones
This boy is my one and only
This boy is my pride and joy
He’s the boy of the future
But can you face the pain when he stares you right in the face
The laser eyes and the pulsating glands
The steel teeth designed to rip apart flesh
And you say the television made him sick
I’m gonna fight the dark skinned terrorists with this boy
Not the patriots who kill in the name of Christ
But those infidel ones who crucified the twin shrines to capitalism
I’m gonna make this boy kill
I won’t be happy until I see veins in his teeth
After all, he’s the latest and the greatest machine
He always follows orders without questioning
And you told me he’s sick from the tv
I’m gonna give him a medal
So all the neighbors can be proud of their native son
They don’t have to know he was born in a metal shop
Their white eyes beam with excitement at the thought of turbans stained with innocent blood
They bake us pies and shower us with wax kisses because it’s Christmas
Their brains are baking in the oven
They’re baking bricks for the crucifix; they’re being whipped by Pharaoh’s stooges
And the television made them sick
by Mitch Jones
This boy is my one and only
This boy is my pride and joy
He’s the boy of the future
But can you face the pain when he stares you right in the face
The laser eyes and the pulsating glands
The steel teeth designed to rip apart flesh
And you say the television made him sick
I’m gonna fight the dark skinned terrorists with this boy
Not the patriots who kill in the name of Christ
But those infidel ones who crucified the twin shrines to capitalism
I’m gonna make this boy kill
I won’t be happy until I see veins in his teeth
After all, he’s the latest and the greatest machine
He always follows orders without questioning
And you told me he’s sick from the tv
I’m gonna give him a medal
So all the neighbors can be proud of their native son
They don’t have to know he was born in a metal shop
Their white eyes beam with excitement at the thought of turbans stained with innocent blood
They bake us pies and shower us with wax kisses because it’s Christmas
Their brains are baking in the oven
They’re baking bricks for the crucifix; they’re being whipped by Pharaoh’s stooges
And the television made them sick