(every now and then I feel like writing something like this, so here it is)
It should come as no surprise that the dunes in the desert resembles a woman's breasts and if you trudge enough you will come into hollows that resemble something else and you might even learn the true meaning of pounding sand and the irony attendant.
It always surprises me this thing people have about old bones and bodies evacuated of spirit- like bowels in surprised emptiness. Whoops and aloha. These stinking things. These desiccated things. These mummies of arrested development in search of a rapture. "Marines don't leave Marines behind." I'm not going to get into the mathematics of the thing but, in reality, that Marine left you behind the moment he left. And if you think that blood-soaked bag of offal is something you want to mount on the shelf of memories, be my guest.
I think Ann Coulter is a bag of Mexican diarrhea left flaming on a well deserved suburban porch but she's right about the 9/11 clueless widows in search of their Brittany Spears moment. Dead bodies are carcasses. They are worse than old clothes and they really stink; this gives some indication of the life all your loved ones lived. Now, some, they can rest in state for I give you long time G.I. and roses bloom in your mind when you pass but it doesn't include the lumpen proles.
It's a culture of death. It's roadside altars and Filipino memorials to some ill formed wretch in search of a dream. They all die by the side of the highway because the highway is all that they thought to be real. It adds special luster to Bruce, or it did before he went and decided that awful folk music was a good career move.
You get down on your knees people and you wail about migrating nitrogen. You don't miss anything but the importance these people gave you and now they are gone. You'll all be gone and you'll all wail like you lost something while you spent you whole life not looking for the only thing that matters. Sure, you were young once and you may well have had a moment of passion apart from the usual focus. Now you think your 9 year old ought to get a navel piercing and be on one of those young model sites because she'll get a college education. No, she won't. She'll get dicks galore and be a total slut competing for air time with the canon fodder that's been used up in order to give her that space.
You can't push freedom and suppress sex. I'm sure someone must have told you this but maybe not. I remind myself of one thing only while I am here; I'll be gone soon and thank God for that. I don't know how I wound up down here, I must have checked the wrong box... but going? That's a breeze.
Your careers, your loved ones, everything you ever imagined and hoped for is... dust, or sand... shaped like the mother you ignored and arched out across the landscape like forever had a fence. And she was the sugar that never stopped being sweet. She was the arched eye over the boxed canyon. She was ceaseless vigil for the incurious. She would have fucked your brains out but you went for Kellogg instead. If it doesn't rot your teeth it ain't the real thing.
And it wasn't once or twice that did it. It was thousands of times to the same Inn with no room and the knives and the blood and the security fences. Every single day along the same rails, dreaming of the woman in the dunes but never greeting her in the moment of discovery, never drinking at the deep well beside the palms; just pounding sand.
All that phony heroism. All those bad horns and all that blood. All those high blown speeches that sent children out to hang on barbed wire as if Christ had never happened at all. All of that because you were afraid of your own sexuality. You couldn't dance round the fire could you? You couldn't imagine that fucking was the prime imperative besides finding God; and we differ there too... same energy, different objective. But you know. You know every time you close your eyes and dream. You know that the REM of your waking life is composed of the unwritten sonatas of all the people you didn't fuck. So you fucked them other ways... with cluster bombs and land minds and phosphorous. There ain't no sex like the sex that literally burns away the body you admire. Young, dumb and full of cum is not a blue jeans ad.
You let Israel drop a million cluster bomblets on Lebanon in the final four days AFTER the peace was declared and they're your buddies aren't they? How come they are your buddies since they're about 3 percent of you and blacks ain't included? Speaking of holocausts.... Speaking of holocausts.... That PR action doesn't make the meter jump at all compared to what happened to black people. Life is suffering. It ain't different nor embodying a higher quantification of pain than that of a Native American, an Iraqi or an Armenian.
Your government is riddled with whores. It doesn't matter which version of it sits in judgment of the world it wants to own. So many times you get warned and all you want to talk about is your makeup and your cellphone batteries and your boy/girlfriends. You want to go right down to the ladies only night and blow the gay male stripper because that's your fantasy. Guys want an angel that dresses like a slut. Everybody wants something that is impossible and no one takes the smorgasbord that God loaded the table with. "Thank you; I'll see the librarian with the glasses now. That will be all Mildred."
All across that reach of sand... that obscuring and gritty magnificence of dreaming jewels in their microscopic uncountable perfection of 'we the many' and out of which so many things, most ironically... glass... is made and all across that wonder of breasts and pussies with oasis reaching pubic hair and cool. Cool water and the ageless serpent, scorpion and rat...
See, people really think if you walk all the way into the desert without water you will die. People really think that nature can kill you and they think it's dangerous out there. It is, it is dangerous precisely because you are there. She likes me.
She shows me all her dark faces and she frightens me and makes me run and then she hunts me and then she rolls me around on the sand and kisses my belly. She never hurts me. You hurt me. You hurt her. And, you hurt. Well, it will all be over soon and people will be making plans for your ariva dirt nap. You'll go, others will come, you'll come back and wonder where you were and it all comes down to learning how to stay out of your way.
You're the killers and the harm this planet has. Everything else is fine except for you and when you are at your worst you are banal. And when you are banal you are really dangerous.