for Jess
The architecture of this
invisible circuitry of
desire I feel for you:
The beauty of your
moans when my palms
approach to the sensitive
shades of brightest temper,
for your body is a leafy
bower under which to
linger and in which to
pass the hours by our
touch: It has the effect of
annihilating all I thought
to bring to you, but
fuel for your further fire,
and some lines to evoke
the power of your laughter
that stuns fate and makes it
stream with golden honey
from which creation may
arise, as I rise to you,
my face a royal cushion
in a house of stars
for you to sit upon, and I
with my tricky tongue
to help you drink more
deeply of their light, for
I shall be your adornment
and will teach you to
see yourself in a mirror of
divine signs: In the night,
your body will be as stars
the brightest of which
I will suck close to me,
and press my face against
their brilliance, for you are
the gateway of licking,
swallowing, darkness
and lechery, you are
the sensuous Persian lilac
embrace of lovely midnight
indigo blue, come sweetest
between your legs, as
your hands run across
the movements of my body
gone deep in you, like magic
shuttles, the French navette,
which also means
incense-boat, your fragrance
I want on me always
and have always at my side,
to lift my dreams into
the country of your
countenance, even as I
sleep and dream with
my fingers entwined in some
bit of you drawn close:
In India, is a mountain called
Lilaeus, that breaks
into a black stone called
clitoris, which the local
woman use to adorn their
ears. Turn your head
that I might lick your lobes
and gently stick the tip of
my tongue into the hole
from which you hear,
so that our love language be
as the sea, poluphoisboios,
the sound of the sea
slopping against the shore
which gave Homer
the rhythm for his epics.
And you are epic, O primal being
moving thus through water
and a moisture all your own,
patronness of marriage of
all the elements, gateway
to love and life and even
the death of all I ever thought
to be, seeming now non-
existent without you wrapped
around me as if to give
everything I am, the form
of love's embrace: And thus
I worship you with
mysterious nights and great
processions of lanterns,
by which to see you, know
you, as self-sustaining,
unknowable yet all-pervading.
Bestower of love and joy,
you nevertheless have
an unblinking cobra eye
in the middle of your
forehead, mark of unceasing
attention, and wisdom.
I hear that you can bring
from it, a scorpion's tail,
but I am quick enough
to snatch lightning right
out of the sky, so I am
not afraid. I come to you
for nourishment, Celestial
Mistress: I am just a humble
thief who will be honest
with you, if you will only be
for me, the lovely sycamore,
many-breasted, and with
figs between your fingers,
your toes, under your armpits
and behind your ears, but
especially between your legs.
You carry with you
a load of sweet milk
and the chaotic darkness of
an even sweeter nectar:
The creativity of the Creator
becomes his creature, you,
and now that I have seen you,
every pistachio shell I find
in the marketplace turns
immediately into a pearl.
I've been storing them
in my mouth, so that
when we meet, and my lips
first touch yours, I'll
push them through your lips
and press them into
your mouth, as a gift
and a suggestion to you
that you squeeze
your milky nectar into me
in any way you can.
*
Monday, November 23, 2009
for Jess
The architecture of this
invisible curcuitry of
desire I feel for you:
The beauty of your
moans when my palms
approach to the senstive
shades of your own time,
for your body is a leafy
bower under which to
linger and in which to
pass the hours by our
touches has the effect of
annihilating all I thought
to bring to you, but
fuel for your further fire,
and some line to evoke
the power of your laughter
that stuns fate and make it
stream with sweet cum
from which creation may
arise, as I rise to you,
my face a royal cushion
in a house of stars
for you to sit upon, and I
with my tricky tongue
to help you drink more
deeply of their light, for
I shall be your adornment
and will teach you to
see yourself in a mirror of
divine signs: In the night,
your body will be as stars
the brightest of which
I will suck close to me,
and press my face against
their brilliance, for you are
the gateway of licking,
swallowing, darkness
and lechery, you are
the sensuous Persian lilac
embrace of lovely midnight
blue indigo, come sweetest
between your legs, as
your hands run across
the momvements of my body
gone deep in you, like magic
shuttles, the French navette,
which also means
incense-boat, your fragrance
I want on my always
and have always at my side,
to life my dreams into
the country of your
countenance, even as I
sleep and dream with
my fingers entwined in some
bit of you drawn close:
In India, is a mountain called
Lilaeus, that breaks
into a black stone called
clitoris, which the local
woman use to adorn their
ears. Turn your head
that I might lick your lobes
and gently stick the tip of
my tongue into the hole
from which you hear,
so that our love language be
as sea-wash,
The architecture of this
invisible curcuitry of
desire I feel for you:
The beauty of your
moans when my palms
approach to the senstive
shades of your own time,
for your body is a leafy
bower under which to
linger and in which to
pass the hours by our
touches has the effect of
annihilating all I thought
to bring to you, but
fuel for your further fire,
and some line to evoke
the power of your laughter
that stuns fate and make it
stream with sweet cum
from which creation may
arise, as I rise to you,
my face a royal cushion
in a house of stars
for you to sit upon, and I
with my tricky tongue
to help you drink more
deeply of their light, for
I shall be your adornment
and will teach you to
see yourself in a mirror of
divine signs: In the night,
your body will be as stars
the brightest of which
I will suck close to me,
and press my face against
their brilliance, for you are
the gateway of licking,
swallowing, darkness
and lechery, you are
the sensuous Persian lilac
embrace of lovely midnight
blue indigo, come sweetest
between your legs, as
your hands run across
the momvements of my body
gone deep in you, like magic
shuttles, the French navette,
which also means
incense-boat, your fragrance
I want on my always
and have always at my side,
to life my dreams into
the country of your
countenance, even as I
sleep and dream with
my fingers entwined in some
bit of you drawn close:
In India, is a mountain called
Lilaeus, that breaks
into a black stone called
clitoris, which the local
woman use to adorn their
ears. Turn your head
that I might lick your lobes
and gently stick the tip of
my tongue into the hole
from which you hear,
so that our love language be
as sea-wash,
Saturday, November 21, 2009
My Neighborhood
Streetlights in the evening, and then in sunlight, either way, there are trees. Are there trees? Something on the other side of the window partially blocks my view. Tree branches. Or arms, hanging down from the roof. I can see those sequences of painted white lines at two intersections that constitute crosswalks. Across the street and up at the corner of King and Church, the Wilson Hotel shines on having been transformed from a derelict hotel of the 70s to a rooming house for derelict men run by the city's housing authority. Next door is the Waystation, a homeless shelter with twenty beds in a single room. And further up King, and on the corner of Winooski Ave, is the Daystation, which is where most of the homeless people from the Waystation hang out during the day. Some also go to the public library, the university library, or some also wander aimlessly about the downtown, commercial area.
There's another house next to my house, and then, I have been able to determine this mostly from window views, so I'm unsure of compass directions: Perhaps it's east. And then southeast, another big white apartment building done up nicely with a whole series of escape ladders and emergency stairways and safety decks in case there's a fire or a hurricane or a sudden attack by the French Foreign Legion. Get out of town, baby. The voice inside someone's head repeats this often. Four to six weeks to renew your passport by mail, or, pay extra and get them to process it right there! That's more my speed: Always pay more and get them to process it right there. Forget sending out for anything. Signals get too easily crossed. And besides, who really knows what anyone wants, intends, or will do: Watch a man's face until you can see his beard grow. Then you'll have evidence of a certain degree of honesty.
I really love the house across the street. It is sort of by itself, an empty lot to the right, and then another house (I think I may not be remembering things correctly), and to the left, a big driveway into a flat parking lot, and beyond that, a two-tiered parking lot, and then at the corner of St. Paul and King, some sort of former office building that I think has a bar downstairs, and . . . the upstairs of these buildings have always confused me. I just figure they're full of "papers" of some importance, papers of misfortune that must be saved, tax records from a former planet that exploded 5000 years before Thera. Valuable shit.
And above that, over at Main and St. Paul, the glorious former Hotel Vermont, its brick elegance, or is it marble? Attenuated memory, dutiable perception, I don't know: I'm not paid up. Anyway, this house across the street, whose bottom door at the top of a high cement stairway is always open so you can see its two mailboxes hung at to different angles just inside the door: And the middle window on the second floor in the evening is lit with such a beautiful, elegant saffron glow, it makes me weep. The tiny third floor window is dark. I don't know what's in there, but I want to live there. I have a predilection for small, third floor rooms. Brown grass. A discarded suitcase. The guy who wears a kilt begging change on the corner of Church and Main.
The bodies of the three dead martians from Roswell preserved in the basement of the US Treasury Building are acting up. We nationalists who as poets are concerned over our republic, as forms like sovereign governments need difference over which to conduct attempts at agreements of various sorts, as trade, immigration, peace and all of that, listen on the other side of our inner ears for the demonological throb of animating truths disguised under the questionable value of human political policy.
And the news from Davos is troubling. Istanbul. The Hotel California. The Soviet "invasion" of Afghanistan in 1979, Southeast Asian wars from 1964, begun through the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, Mosseddegh in Iran in 1954 and the wholesale import into the United States of Werner von Braun, Josef Mengele and the like are moved directly through the Rockefeller-funded Council on Foreign Relations (founded Manhattan 1921, in lieu of international rejection of the League of Nations), the Zbigniew Brzezinski-founded Tri-Lateral Commission (the same guy who "ran" Carter and who is now high up in the Obama administration) and, at the peak of the triad, the Bilberburg Group, founded by ex-Nazi Prince Bernhard of Holland, and whose purpose, according to long-term member David Rockefeller, is to break down sovereign nation-states and institute a form of worldwide rule that would make any war or conflict that one or another of these gruops couldn't direct and control . . . an inconvenience. Boys will be boys. Or, the girls just want to have fun. Swiss banks, the beginning of offshore banking services. The new "state." A friend recently wrote and told me about Swiss husbands. She said they operate at temperatures somewhere below absolute zero. Whatever. Any hypnogogue should be able to see trouble in the making: Its names are legion: Just say a word, and you are there.
So, let's say we're in the basement of a small, private hotel in Holland, in which a number of men, mostly, are seated around a large oval table. Well, and so: They have on suits, with red ties, you know: Blue bloods. Richard Holbrooke is telling how easy it has been to get Osama bin Laden - who's been living in the basement of the White House since 2000 - to switch from calling Bush his "white slave" to calling Obama his "house nigger." There's a little laughter about teaming them up again, until there's a call for silence, and a somber Roman prayer, during which time Etienne Davignon, former chair of the Bilderburg group, removes his trousers, pulls down his underpants and, having gotten up on the table, proceeds to ceremonially shit a brightly colored pigeon's egg on the plate of each of the participants. Upon closing the prayer, the eggs are eaten, with a few remarks: "Too salty," complains Carl Bildt. "Tastes like pussy," smiles Franco Bernabe, and "did you make all of these yourself?" [James Wolfensohn].
The table, meanwhile, is loaded with cold cuts, rabbit, pheasant, sauteed vegetables, sweet potatoes and squashes, pickled herring, cheeses, breads, hummus, jams and jellies and various desserts. But the main course is over to the side, a barbecue pit, where two headless Iraqi children's corpses turn on spits and are beginning to ooze rather nicely.
A handcuffed Iranian boy of maybe 17 is brought into the room by guards, and David Rockefeller - beyond himself with lust after watching the boys on the spit - goes up to him, slips the boy's pants down and begins to lick the boy's cock, which stiffens against his will, partly out of fear, yet partly from the stimulation. David finally has had enough licking and slips his lips over the boy's whole member, laves it with his tongue and slides his lips back and forth along its length. Meanwhile, Hilary Clinton his dropped Rockefeller's drawers and shorts and has begun fucking him up the ass with her clitoris, the next stiffest thing in the room. David moans around the cock in his mouth while Hilary humps him, until a jealous Queen Beatrix - daughter of Bilderburg founder, fascist Prince Bernhard - tries to shove Hilary out of the way, yelling, "Let me have a throw at Wimpy's crack: I'll have him creaming into next week: My clit's as big as a Dutch Cleanser Can!" When the boy cums, Rocky holds the jism in his mouth, eyes shining, while Timothy Geitner presses his mouth against Rockefeller's to try and suck some of it out, lapping at his lips to get at least a drop or two. Rockefeller, speechless for his mouthful, takes out his pen and writes across the tablecloth, NO! I WANT ALL OF IT!" The mission to invade is on. Amything else would be less than delicious, and who could bear up under the weight of a denial like that?
What would Goebbels have said? Fabians! One shot from a German flame-thrower would put an end to all this nonsense! I don't entirely disagree, but would prefer a more Rwandan strategy: Hack them all up into bits with machetes, and leave a pile of hands on the table, for it is said that the twitch of a dead man's little finger is a sign of some lingering virtue. That might be interesting to determine.
The opinion is, finally, that the world must be returned to a feudal system so that it (and us) be saved. China is the model. Rockefeller has always lauded China as the one successful model of a social and cultural revolution that has been worth whatever it has taken to establish and maintain it. During Mao's reign alone, 60 million Chinese peasants were exterminated. They call this "systematic ideology."
Eric Pianca gets a standing ovation during his speeches whenever he talks about ebola as being effective and necessary to wipe out the bulk of the world's population. His students go him one better, and say that every living human being on earth should be eliminated. That would be ultimate power, and absolute control, but with no one to weild it. But these population reduction plans that fall under the guise of "environmentalism" . . . they simply destabilize the Local. I don't know. Environmentalism, like the idea of the police, makes me jittery. Who decides who gets to live? In 1911, in some states in America, poor grades on a report card could've resulted in arrest, a trip to the hospital and immediate sterilization.
But this is all from Malthus and his "catastrophism", and subsequently also Darwin and T.H. Huxley, and the actual founder of Eugenics as a movement, Darwin's cousin Sir Francis Galton. T.H. Huxley's famous sons, Aldous and Julian were adamant Eugenicists, as was George Bernard Show and H.G. Wells, whose lover, Margaret Sanger, founder of what became Planned Parenthood, wrote to a fellow Eugenicist that they would have to find influential negro conscripts who would be able to help them convince the bulk of the populations in black communities to agree to sterilization.
These ideas came to the fore in the late 19th century, during the era of the Robber Barons, Vanderbilt, Gould, Rockefeller, Carnegie, etc. Edison and Ford were also significant fascists. Such attitudes come from a combination of Big Science (proofs) and Enlightenment rationalism. Racial classification. The size of the head of an "idiot." Etc. But identification of this type is just more means toward control. And control is just the fear that everyone else is lying to you as much as you lie to them.
Story: When Napoleon was trying to escape the pincer movements of the dual forces of Wellington and a Prussian brigade, a spy of Nathan Rothschild - an agent for the Bank of England - saw that Napoleon was going to lose the battle, and thus, the whole war. He sped back to London, and, arriving 20 hours before news of Napoleon's defeat would reach England, told Rothschild what he had seen. Rothschild immediately spread rumors that Napoleon had won, the London Stock Market fell 98%, and Rothschild bought up the whole British economy for pennies on the pound.
The US hasn't had a real president since 1933, the year the country was declared bankrupt by the Federal Reserve, which is not a part of the government, despite the name, but is an independent "offshore" bank, a large proportion of whose shareholders are foreigners. Social Security was put in place to pledge those citizens, their children, their children's children, as collateral for the national debt to the Federal Reserve bank (a private bank), and, since 1933, the US government has operated on the basis of emergency powers, that is to say, the Secretary of the Treasury runs the country, because he is the one who manages the bankruptcy, and also because he is always recommended by the Federal Reserve, is then "selected" by the president, unquestioningly, and is confirmed by congress. So now, we have Geitner, former head of the New York Federal Reserve . . . as Secretary of the Treasury. Treasury is the agency through which the banker bailout money was transposed. As of today, 9.7 trillion has disappeared. It was not ear-marked for anything specific. It was just supposed to "help the economy". The banks, actually. And now Treasury is telling us that where it has gone "is secret." Someone actually said that: "It's secret." [The Treasury Secretary under Bush, Henry Paulson, who said, after the banker bailout had been passed by Congress, that they weren't going to use the 800 billion to correct the sub-prime mortgage market. Privately, he even admitted that that had never been the real problem. Saying that it was was simply a ruse by Treasury and the Fed to get the bailout bill passed. Paulson admitted - again, privately - that the real problem was with what are called "derivatives." Which are rather like the junk bonds that caused the massive bank collapses in 1988 that we now refer to as the S & L Scandal. It was a similar situation, with a smaller government bailout, with which the owners of many failed banks simply bought back their revamped institutions (after the government had paid them up) in accordance with the program, sometimes for as little as a dollar.]
And look at the nature of the Obama administration: It's all about money and investment: Everyone comes from Wall Street, from banking, from investment firms. They're all bankers. There is no one from heavy industry or manufacturing, no car makers, no one from the beef, pork, wheat and corn sector, there is no one from the steel or rail or trucking industries, there is no one from big oil, or natural gas, there are no fruit growers or truck farmers, no retirees, no youth groups, no councils on the status of women, or hispanics, or blacks, or orientals, or any minotiries: The is no one but money oligarchs. What has happened to the beef, pork and grain markets of Chicago? What determines price? Quantity of some real thing, or an abstract prefigurement related to the derivitives market? Oil recently topped out at $150/barrel of sweet crude: Maybe a pound of nicely marbled flank will soon come close to that.
Some say JFK was our last "real" president, and that his assassination was a coup d'etat. But the coup had already taken place, in 1933. In the summer of 1963, Kennedy did sign Executive Order 11110, that began to take away some of the Federal Reserve's absolute power to put money into circulation. His assassination is likely related directly to that. It didn't have to do with angry nationalist anti-Castro Cubans, or the CIA, or the mafia, or the military-industrial complex. Who suddenly changed the parade route in Dallas? The secret service. Who decided not to use the bullet-proof protective bubble? The secret service. Who called off extra Dallas city police protection for the motorcade? The secret service. Who decided to put Kenedy's limo at the front of the motorcade, where usually it would have been second or third? The secret service. Who drove Kennedy's limo? James Greer, former chauffer for Henry Cabot Lodge, ex-Ambassador to pre-war Vietnam, and, an agent for the secret service. Who waved off the agents that normally run alongside the presidential limosine to provide even further protection, even though a couple of the agents initially protested? The head of secret service directing the motorcade that day. Who gave the order that agents not respond when the firing began? This same secret service head. Who shot Kennedy? It wasn't Oswald. It wasn't some shooter up on the Grassy Knoll. It wasn't the man with a gun spotted behind the picket fence by the railroad yard. It wasn't anyone on the first floor of the Daltex building. Sure, they all fired diversionary shots. But who fired the lethal shot? It was Greer. The driver of his car. Greer shot Kennedy. Watch the film. The car slows (his foot moves off the gas pedal as he turns and fires), and he shoots with his left hand, over his shoulder. The first examining physician at Parkland Hospital to see Kennedy (before the secret service got to him) said that the entry wound in his head was up near the left-front temple, which would be consistent with a shot from the driver. An entry wound from any other possible location could not have occurred there. Any shot from that side from outside the car, would've gotten Connelly's wife. And how was it that John Connelly, a Democrat, was picked by Nixon to be his Secretary of the Treasury during his first term, in 1971? And when was Nixon doing in Dallas on the day of the assassination. In fact, what was George H.W. Bush doing in Dallas that day, apparently seen standing on the overpass that JFK's limo sped under on the way to Parkland? And why did J. Edgar Hoover summon Bush to his office two days after the assassination? Ostensibly, it was to find out what the CIA knew about Oswald's Cuba connection. Oswald was a CIA patsy, and also a part-time FBI informant. We all know these basically inconsequential names. They're used to cover Treaury. Everyone's heard of Ferry, Shaw, Bannister asnd that whole rather sinister New Orleans crowd officiating out of the same office at Camp Street. But can anyone name the Secretary of the Treasury in 1963? I can't. But we should all be able to. Because he did it.
So: The secret service. In 1963, the secret service was a division of the US Treasury.
Now we know what a secret is. There is always part of your neighborhood that cannot see you. You can't at any time, see the entirety of your own body. You cannot know everything that is going on in your own neighborhood, let alone control it. Policy is a kind of idiocy. It works against perception, which is wholly partial, because there's always more to look at. Isn't this probably one of life's simplest joys?
The part ex-Mayor Peter Clavelle played in transforming Burlington from a working-class town whose industrial base had rotted out from under it into a tourist's lakeside paradise replete with condos, banks and business offices replacing old but still functioning working-class neighborhoods was ill-considered though pardonable as such offences go, urban development, human development and all the error and difficulty these bring. But what current mayor Bob Kiss and City Treasurer Jonathan Leopold have done is reprehensible: Selling a city out to foreign landlords. There's even a portable psychologist in the Marketplace, to make sure none of the homeless or mentally ill people get out of hand, and upset the shoppers. They've done to Burlington what Americans generally have let themselves become: A nation of shop-a-holic idiots, who think they can buy whatever they or someone else deems necessary? A new identity? A different Middle East policy? A different mate? You name it. Where can I get it? What do I have to "do"?
No one has to "do" anything. Just keep your ears open for biplanes over the former dump, and your eyes open for the French Foreign Legion, who are always approaching the outskirts of town.
D.H. Lawrence, Bud Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia.
The Baron Hotel. Imagine. Meeting the biographer of English painter Francis Bacon in the downstairs bar.
In Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, I am most recently known as a serving-maid named Sara, who is nevertheless still a divinity to gypsies.
C. Douglas Dillon. Another little known who's who.
*
There's another house next to my house, and then, I have been able to determine this mostly from window views, so I'm unsure of compass directions: Perhaps it's east. And then southeast, another big white apartment building done up nicely with a whole series of escape ladders and emergency stairways and safety decks in case there's a fire or a hurricane or a sudden attack by the French Foreign Legion. Get out of town, baby. The voice inside someone's head repeats this often. Four to six weeks to renew your passport by mail, or, pay extra and get them to process it right there! That's more my speed: Always pay more and get them to process it right there. Forget sending out for anything. Signals get too easily crossed. And besides, who really knows what anyone wants, intends, or will do: Watch a man's face until you can see his beard grow. Then you'll have evidence of a certain degree of honesty.
I really love the house across the street. It is sort of by itself, an empty lot to the right, and then another house (I think I may not be remembering things correctly), and to the left, a big driveway into a flat parking lot, and beyond that, a two-tiered parking lot, and then at the corner of St. Paul and King, some sort of former office building that I think has a bar downstairs, and . . . the upstairs of these buildings have always confused me. I just figure they're full of "papers" of some importance, papers of misfortune that must be saved, tax records from a former planet that exploded 5000 years before Thera. Valuable shit.
And above that, over at Main and St. Paul, the glorious former Hotel Vermont, its brick elegance, or is it marble? Attenuated memory, dutiable perception, I don't know: I'm not paid up. Anyway, this house across the street, whose bottom door at the top of a high cement stairway is always open so you can see its two mailboxes hung at to different angles just inside the door: And the middle window on the second floor in the evening is lit with such a beautiful, elegant saffron glow, it makes me weep. The tiny third floor window is dark. I don't know what's in there, but I want to live there. I have a predilection for small, third floor rooms. Brown grass. A discarded suitcase. The guy who wears a kilt begging change on the corner of Church and Main.
The bodies of the three dead martians from Roswell preserved in the basement of the US Treasury Building are acting up. We nationalists who as poets are concerned over our republic, as forms like sovereign governments need difference over which to conduct attempts at agreements of various sorts, as trade, immigration, peace and all of that, listen on the other side of our inner ears for the demonological throb of animating truths disguised under the questionable value of human political policy.
And the news from Davos is troubling. Istanbul. The Hotel California. The Soviet "invasion" of Afghanistan in 1979, Southeast Asian wars from 1964, begun through the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, Mosseddegh in Iran in 1954 and the wholesale import into the United States of Werner von Braun, Josef Mengele and the like are moved directly through the Rockefeller-funded Council on Foreign Relations (founded Manhattan 1921, in lieu of international rejection of the League of Nations), the Zbigniew Brzezinski-founded Tri-Lateral Commission (the same guy who "ran" Carter and who is now high up in the Obama administration) and, at the peak of the triad, the Bilberburg Group, founded by ex-Nazi Prince Bernhard of Holland, and whose purpose, according to long-term member David Rockefeller, is to break down sovereign nation-states and institute a form of worldwide rule that would make any war or conflict that one or another of these gruops couldn't direct and control . . . an inconvenience. Boys will be boys. Or, the girls just want to have fun. Swiss banks, the beginning of offshore banking services. The new "state." A friend recently wrote and told me about Swiss husbands. She said they operate at temperatures somewhere below absolute zero. Whatever. Any hypnogogue should be able to see trouble in the making: Its names are legion: Just say a word, and you are there.
So, let's say we're in the basement of a small, private hotel in Holland, in which a number of men, mostly, are seated around a large oval table. Well, and so: They have on suits, with red ties, you know: Blue bloods. Richard Holbrooke is telling how easy it has been to get Osama bin Laden - who's been living in the basement of the White House since 2000 - to switch from calling Bush his "white slave" to calling Obama his "house nigger." There's a little laughter about teaming them up again, until there's a call for silence, and a somber Roman prayer, during which time Etienne Davignon, former chair of the Bilderburg group, removes his trousers, pulls down his underpants and, having gotten up on the table, proceeds to ceremonially shit a brightly colored pigeon's egg on the plate of each of the participants. Upon closing the prayer, the eggs are eaten, with a few remarks: "Too salty," complains Carl Bildt. "Tastes like pussy," smiles Franco Bernabe, and "did you make all of these yourself?" [James Wolfensohn].
The table, meanwhile, is loaded with cold cuts, rabbit, pheasant, sauteed vegetables, sweet potatoes and squashes, pickled herring, cheeses, breads, hummus, jams and jellies and various desserts. But the main course is over to the side, a barbecue pit, where two headless Iraqi children's corpses turn on spits and are beginning to ooze rather nicely.
A handcuffed Iranian boy of maybe 17 is brought into the room by guards, and David Rockefeller - beyond himself with lust after watching the boys on the spit - goes up to him, slips the boy's pants down and begins to lick the boy's cock, which stiffens against his will, partly out of fear, yet partly from the stimulation. David finally has had enough licking and slips his lips over the boy's whole member, laves it with his tongue and slides his lips back and forth along its length. Meanwhile, Hilary Clinton his dropped Rockefeller's drawers and shorts and has begun fucking him up the ass with her clitoris, the next stiffest thing in the room. David moans around the cock in his mouth while Hilary humps him, until a jealous Queen Beatrix - daughter of Bilderburg founder, fascist Prince Bernhard - tries to shove Hilary out of the way, yelling, "Let me have a throw at Wimpy's crack: I'll have him creaming into next week: My clit's as big as a Dutch Cleanser Can!" When the boy cums, Rocky holds the jism in his mouth, eyes shining, while Timothy Geitner presses his mouth against Rockefeller's to try and suck some of it out, lapping at his lips to get at least a drop or two. Rockefeller, speechless for his mouthful, takes out his pen and writes across the tablecloth, NO! I WANT ALL OF IT!" The mission to invade is on. Amything else would be less than delicious, and who could bear up under the weight of a denial like that?
What would Goebbels have said? Fabians! One shot from a German flame-thrower would put an end to all this nonsense! I don't entirely disagree, but would prefer a more Rwandan strategy: Hack them all up into bits with machetes, and leave a pile of hands on the table, for it is said that the twitch of a dead man's little finger is a sign of some lingering virtue. That might be interesting to determine.
The opinion is, finally, that the world must be returned to a feudal system so that it (and us) be saved. China is the model. Rockefeller has always lauded China as the one successful model of a social and cultural revolution that has been worth whatever it has taken to establish and maintain it. During Mao's reign alone, 60 million Chinese peasants were exterminated. They call this "systematic ideology."
Eric Pianca gets a standing ovation during his speeches whenever he talks about ebola as being effective and necessary to wipe out the bulk of the world's population. His students go him one better, and say that every living human being on earth should be eliminated. That would be ultimate power, and absolute control, but with no one to weild it. But these population reduction plans that fall under the guise of "environmentalism" . . . they simply destabilize the Local. I don't know. Environmentalism, like the idea of the police, makes me jittery. Who decides who gets to live? In 1911, in some states in America, poor grades on a report card could've resulted in arrest, a trip to the hospital and immediate sterilization.
But this is all from Malthus and his "catastrophism", and subsequently also Darwin and T.H. Huxley, and the actual founder of Eugenics as a movement, Darwin's cousin Sir Francis Galton. T.H. Huxley's famous sons, Aldous and Julian were adamant Eugenicists, as was George Bernard Show and H.G. Wells, whose lover, Margaret Sanger, founder of what became Planned Parenthood, wrote to a fellow Eugenicist that they would have to find influential negro conscripts who would be able to help them convince the bulk of the populations in black communities to agree to sterilization.
These ideas came to the fore in the late 19th century, during the era of the Robber Barons, Vanderbilt, Gould, Rockefeller, Carnegie, etc. Edison and Ford were also significant fascists. Such attitudes come from a combination of Big Science (proofs) and Enlightenment rationalism. Racial classification. The size of the head of an "idiot." Etc. But identification of this type is just more means toward control. And control is just the fear that everyone else is lying to you as much as you lie to them.
Story: When Napoleon was trying to escape the pincer movements of the dual forces of Wellington and a Prussian brigade, a spy of Nathan Rothschild - an agent for the Bank of England - saw that Napoleon was going to lose the battle, and thus, the whole war. He sped back to London, and, arriving 20 hours before news of Napoleon's defeat would reach England, told Rothschild what he had seen. Rothschild immediately spread rumors that Napoleon had won, the London Stock Market fell 98%, and Rothschild bought up the whole British economy for pennies on the pound.
The US hasn't had a real president since 1933, the year the country was declared bankrupt by the Federal Reserve, which is not a part of the government, despite the name, but is an independent "offshore" bank, a large proportion of whose shareholders are foreigners. Social Security was put in place to pledge those citizens, their children, their children's children, as collateral for the national debt to the Federal Reserve bank (a private bank), and, since 1933, the US government has operated on the basis of emergency powers, that is to say, the Secretary of the Treasury runs the country, because he is the one who manages the bankruptcy, and also because he is always recommended by the Federal Reserve, is then "selected" by the president, unquestioningly, and is confirmed by congress. So now, we have Geitner, former head of the New York Federal Reserve . . . as Secretary of the Treasury. Treasury is the agency through which the banker bailout money was transposed. As of today, 9.7 trillion has disappeared. It was not ear-marked for anything specific. It was just supposed to "help the economy". The banks, actually. And now Treasury is telling us that where it has gone "is secret." Someone actually said that: "It's secret." [The Treasury Secretary under Bush, Henry Paulson, who said, after the banker bailout had been passed by Congress, that they weren't going to use the 800 billion to correct the sub-prime mortgage market. Privately, he even admitted that that had never been the real problem. Saying that it was was simply a ruse by Treasury and the Fed to get the bailout bill passed. Paulson admitted - again, privately - that the real problem was with what are called "derivatives." Which are rather like the junk bonds that caused the massive bank collapses in 1988 that we now refer to as the S & L Scandal. It was a similar situation, with a smaller government bailout, with which the owners of many failed banks simply bought back their revamped institutions (after the government had paid them up) in accordance with the program, sometimes for as little as a dollar.]
And look at the nature of the Obama administration: It's all about money and investment: Everyone comes from Wall Street, from banking, from investment firms. They're all bankers. There is no one from heavy industry or manufacturing, no car makers, no one from the beef, pork, wheat and corn sector, there is no one from the steel or rail or trucking industries, there is no one from big oil, or natural gas, there are no fruit growers or truck farmers, no retirees, no youth groups, no councils on the status of women, or hispanics, or blacks, or orientals, or any minotiries: The is no one but money oligarchs. What has happened to the beef, pork and grain markets of Chicago? What determines price? Quantity of some real thing, or an abstract prefigurement related to the derivitives market? Oil recently topped out at $150/barrel of sweet crude: Maybe a pound of nicely marbled flank will soon come close to that.
Some say JFK was our last "real" president, and that his assassination was a coup d'etat. But the coup had already taken place, in 1933. In the summer of 1963, Kennedy did sign Executive Order 11110, that began to take away some of the Federal Reserve's absolute power to put money into circulation. His assassination is likely related directly to that. It didn't have to do with angry nationalist anti-Castro Cubans, or the CIA, or the mafia, or the military-industrial complex. Who suddenly changed the parade route in Dallas? The secret service. Who decided not to use the bullet-proof protective bubble? The secret service. Who called off extra Dallas city police protection for the motorcade? The secret service. Who decided to put Kenedy's limo at the front of the motorcade, where usually it would have been second or third? The secret service. Who drove Kennedy's limo? James Greer, former chauffer for Henry Cabot Lodge, ex-Ambassador to pre-war Vietnam, and, an agent for the secret service. Who waved off the agents that normally run alongside the presidential limosine to provide even further protection, even though a couple of the agents initially protested? The head of secret service directing the motorcade that day. Who gave the order that agents not respond when the firing began? This same secret service head. Who shot Kennedy? It wasn't Oswald. It wasn't some shooter up on the Grassy Knoll. It wasn't the man with a gun spotted behind the picket fence by the railroad yard. It wasn't anyone on the first floor of the Daltex building. Sure, they all fired diversionary shots. But who fired the lethal shot? It was Greer. The driver of his car. Greer shot Kennedy. Watch the film. The car slows (his foot moves off the gas pedal as he turns and fires), and he shoots with his left hand, over his shoulder. The first examining physician at Parkland Hospital to see Kennedy (before the secret service got to him) said that the entry wound in his head was up near the left-front temple, which would be consistent with a shot from the driver. An entry wound from any other possible location could not have occurred there. Any shot from that side from outside the car, would've gotten Connelly's wife. And how was it that John Connelly, a Democrat, was picked by Nixon to be his Secretary of the Treasury during his first term, in 1971? And when was Nixon doing in Dallas on the day of the assassination. In fact, what was George H.W. Bush doing in Dallas that day, apparently seen standing on the overpass that JFK's limo sped under on the way to Parkland? And why did J. Edgar Hoover summon Bush to his office two days after the assassination? Ostensibly, it was to find out what the CIA knew about Oswald's Cuba connection. Oswald was a CIA patsy, and also a part-time FBI informant. We all know these basically inconsequential names. They're used to cover Treaury. Everyone's heard of Ferry, Shaw, Bannister asnd that whole rather sinister New Orleans crowd officiating out of the same office at Camp Street. But can anyone name the Secretary of the Treasury in 1963? I can't. But we should all be able to. Because he did it.
So: The secret service. In 1963, the secret service was a division of the US Treasury.
Now we know what a secret is. There is always part of your neighborhood that cannot see you. You can't at any time, see the entirety of your own body. You cannot know everything that is going on in your own neighborhood, let alone control it. Policy is a kind of idiocy. It works against perception, which is wholly partial, because there's always more to look at. Isn't this probably one of life's simplest joys?
The part ex-Mayor Peter Clavelle played in transforming Burlington from a working-class town whose industrial base had rotted out from under it into a tourist's lakeside paradise replete with condos, banks and business offices replacing old but still functioning working-class neighborhoods was ill-considered though pardonable as such offences go, urban development, human development and all the error and difficulty these bring. But what current mayor Bob Kiss and City Treasurer Jonathan Leopold have done is reprehensible: Selling a city out to foreign landlords. There's even a portable psychologist in the Marketplace, to make sure none of the homeless or mentally ill people get out of hand, and upset the shoppers. They've done to Burlington what Americans generally have let themselves become: A nation of shop-a-holic idiots, who think they can buy whatever they or someone else deems necessary? A new identity? A different Middle East policy? A different mate? You name it. Where can I get it? What do I have to "do"?
No one has to "do" anything. Just keep your ears open for biplanes over the former dump, and your eyes open for the French Foreign Legion, who are always approaching the outskirts of town.
D.H. Lawrence, Bud Lawrence, Lawrence of Arabia.
The Baron Hotel. Imagine. Meeting the biographer of English painter Francis Bacon in the downstairs bar.
In Les Saintes Maries de la Mer, I am most recently known as a serving-maid named Sara, who is nevertheless still a divinity to gypsies.
C. Douglas Dillon. Another little known who's who.
*
Friday, November 20, 2009
Aware America
Be political
and correct
the body politic
by slashing open
its corpse
and letting out
the worms
that constitute
the determination
of its movements
*
and correct
the body politic
by slashing open
its corpse
and letting out
the worms
that constitute
the determination
of its movements
*
Mandala
for Jess
What happens if
the snake you've
charmed turns around
and bites you?
More likely
it will wrap its
red night coils
around your trunk
and drape itself
in your upper
branches where it will
suck your eggs
til the sun comes out.
Or even more
likely, it (or "I")
will steal away with
one of your eggs,
sit on it until its
transcendent enegies
rise up my spine
and feel it realized
in the center of
my brain as your own
full moon, one brilliant,
transluscent and made
of pliable white wax:
Your feminine principle
in the masculine vault of
my cranium, where,
now your outcast heat
blazes up my spine,
melts it, and makes the milk of
our conjoined fluids,
a nectar that lubricates
the joints of our
love-making movements,
which, as they cease,
and we fall into a close
embrace, stiffen again
into hard wax that
stiffens our joints,
and keeps our embrace
solid and as immobile as
the sleep the overcomes us
each, as we share, together
in this way, the lotus of
our subtle bodies, touched
by the bliss of our dream.
*
What happens if
the snake you've
charmed turns around
and bites you?
More likely
it will wrap its
red night coils
around your trunk
and drape itself
in your upper
branches where it will
suck your eggs
til the sun comes out.
Or even more
likely, it (or "I")
will steal away with
one of your eggs,
sit on it until its
transcendent enegies
rise up my spine
and feel it realized
in the center of
my brain as your own
full moon, one brilliant,
transluscent and made
of pliable white wax:
Your feminine principle
in the masculine vault of
my cranium, where,
now your outcast heat
blazes up my spine,
melts it, and makes the milk of
our conjoined fluids,
a nectar that lubricates
the joints of our
love-making movements,
which, as they cease,
and we fall into a close
embrace, stiffen again
into hard wax that
stiffens our joints,
and keeps our embrace
solid and as immobile as
the sleep the overcomes us
each, as we share, together
in this way, the lotus of
our subtle bodies, touched
by the bliss of our dream.
*
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Elusive Horizon
As usual, I've dumped
nearly all my friends:
I don't care about
nobody, right? Is it true?
Dennis is downstairs
talking on a cell phone
and turning the pages of
A History of Photography:
Of course I care about
almost everyone! I just get
pissed when no one
talks to me! All right, you
guys, etc. I always forget
what mother always
suggested I best remember:
Never drool excessively
on your friends. Ah, yes, well:
Too late, maybe, already,
for three or four of them
on that score. Their damp lapels.
Fuck 'em. They can all go
belly up in a wheelbarrow
for all I care. What sense of
pleasure might I derive from them?.
What wind, what heart,
what fire? People! Life
goes on and then it rains,
maybe after you're inside,
if you're lucky enough to have
an inside to go in. Self consciousness
has basically eliminated it,
and made the surface of
things appear so that it doesn't
rattle anyone. Silence
for the masses that are
no longer even there. So,
why do I love them as I do?
The fucking little creeps.
*
nearly all my friends:
I don't care about
nobody, right? Is it true?
Dennis is downstairs
talking on a cell phone
and turning the pages of
A History of Photography:
Of course I care about
almost everyone! I just get
pissed when no one
talks to me! All right, you
guys, etc. I always forget
what mother always
suggested I best remember:
Never drool excessively
on your friends. Ah, yes, well:
Too late, maybe, already,
for three or four of them
on that score. Their damp lapels.
Fuck 'em. They can all go
belly up in a wheelbarrow
for all I care. What sense of
pleasure might I derive from them?.
What wind, what heart,
what fire? People! Life
goes on and then it rains,
maybe after you're inside,
if you're lucky enough to have
an inside to go in. Self consciousness
has basically eliminated it,
and made the surface of
things appear so that it doesn't
rattle anyone. Silence
for the masses that are
no longer even there. So,
why do I love them as I do?
The fucking little creeps.
*
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
The Real Thing
for Jess
To be let out of
Purgatory for two
days, to visit
my baby, somewhere
east of Philadelphia,
walking some
imaginary park
or seated in an unreal
cafe: Neither of us
knows a thing about
"place", but
everything about
proximity and it could be
Kansas City or Kokomo
for all I care, as long as
those are your
dark hairs my fingers
finally entwine: Allahu
Akbar, it's true,
and your lips, neck,
breasts, belly, thighs
and the dark swatch of
your pussy are, too
in the hands of a God
who cups every heartfelt
beat that makes my cock
throb for you, as
we will be, in some small
hoteleria above the pines,
entangled like roots of
some swamp cypress,
your chi-chi glamour
as a matter of inqury
for trusting Libra,
and my judicious
Aquarian erotic spark
to put smoochie prints
along your inner thighs
while holding stars aloft.
It is no trick for one
whose skin will never be
too tight. People
aren't supposed to be
as real as we're about to be,
but you prompt me past
ordinal deliverance
to effect adversity by
burning it into the light of
the stars you see: All
the world a lovely error
we can always both
believe. Our actual love
in Oz will be sung by
tin birds whose voices are
animated by gentle
winds across the tops of
golden wheat, gleaming
in the sunlight of Kansas.
What is passion, but what
hides behind blue bushes
at dusk, and what is paradise
but a worn marble counter
in a hotel lobby, bank
or imitation Chinese tea room?
And what could love best
get to be, but the ordinary
fall of familiar snows, or Mondays
for undertipped waitresses?
We have always known
who we are and what this is.
Your body is a warm supper club
at 10. Memories of your
garden invade my appetite:
I cannot but eat everything
you are. Such dreams exposed
are the offered faces of chaos.
To order them is my desire.
Meet me in the Pit at midnight.
*
To be let out of
Purgatory for two
days, to visit
my baby, somewhere
east of Philadelphia,
walking some
imaginary park
or seated in an unreal
cafe: Neither of us
knows a thing about
"place", but
everything about
proximity and it could be
Kansas City or Kokomo
for all I care, as long as
those are your
dark hairs my fingers
finally entwine: Allahu
Akbar, it's true,
and your lips, neck,
breasts, belly, thighs
and the dark swatch of
your pussy are, too
in the hands of a God
who cups every heartfelt
beat that makes my cock
throb for you, as
we will be, in some small
hoteleria above the pines,
entangled like roots of
some swamp cypress,
your chi-chi glamour
as a matter of inqury
for trusting Libra,
and my judicious
Aquarian erotic spark
to put smoochie prints
along your inner thighs
while holding stars aloft.
It is no trick for one
whose skin will never be
too tight. People
aren't supposed to be
as real as we're about to be,
but you prompt me past
ordinal deliverance
to effect adversity by
burning it into the light of
the stars you see: All
the world a lovely error
we can always both
believe. Our actual love
in Oz will be sung by
tin birds whose voices are
animated by gentle
winds across the tops of
golden wheat, gleaming
in the sunlight of Kansas.
What is passion, but what
hides behind blue bushes
at dusk, and what is paradise
but a worn marble counter
in a hotel lobby, bank
or imitation Chinese tea room?
And what could love best
get to be, but the ordinary
fall of familiar snows, or Mondays
for undertipped waitresses?
We have always known
who we are and what this is.
Your body is a warm supper club
at 10. Memories of your
garden invade my appetite:
I cannot but eat everything
you are. Such dreams exposed
are the offered faces of chaos.
To order them is my desire.
Meet me in the Pit at midnight.
*
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