Dog Poet Transmitting.......
May your noses always be cold and wet.
(There's another trenchant and truth filled summation of the Israel did 9/11 blues and it looks like Visible's "9/11 is the Litmus Test" is getting some legs of late.)
It appears to be a large warehouse ...but it's been gaudied up the way they do the high school gym, out there in Hayseed County, or, failing getting the necessary permissions, you might imagine it looking the way the feed storage unit looked, when the Footloose crew got done with it, ♫Footloose! Footloose!♫. We have to imagine that it's that special moment of the evening when the homecoming king and queen walk out on to the ¾ inch plywood floor, to take a solo turn, under the slow turning disco ball. The lantern jawed, homecoming king is Joe Dumb. He's slated to join the military after graduation and get his ass shot off in Eye-rack. The queen is Sally Stupid, she's going off to community collich; going to learn a few of those things that makes it easier to get a job with the airlines.
Someone is filming the event, though you never see them. All you see is what the camera picks up and the sounds are the sounds the camera gets, along with the breathing of the camera operator. We'll assume he's using one of those old VHS camcorders, which requires him to have the camera up to his face. All over the world there are the cheap tinsel dream factories, that grope and groom the people into the kind of penetrating intellects, who see something like this and know they're in for a riveting ride, albeit a tight fit, in one of those topless kiddie trains, that ferry you around the amusement park, at about 5 miles an hour. Fasten your seat belts please!
Over at The Crazy Scissors Hair Emporium, they'll be reading about the candy corn royalty. They'll be talking about it over at Wyatt's Body and Paint too. Luke the transmission guy might say, “I'm durn glad we ain't got nothin like that here”. Yeah, but you do. You got The Method Actor himself (the photo catches him in his best Brando moment, as Brando turns over in his grave). He's saying how “Trayvon could have been me 35 years ago” and you can almost hear an enormous sub rosa chorus singing, ♫Lawd, lawd, we wish you were/was♫, so as to say “Bwak! We hardly knew ye”.
We wish and wish and wish and if wishes were whores, then beggars would get laid (or something like that). Yeah, in this world of “if only”, Trayvon could have gotten a federal loan, had a sex change operation (changed his name to Trayvonita, ♫Come a little bit closer, you're my kinda girl, so big and so strong♫) and then drawn the eyes of the world, with an intensity equal to that focused on England's Black Nobility, when (s)he got married to this Albert Schweitzer Chia plant gene splicing experiment, courtesy of Monsanto.
Don't be surprised at anything. Trayvon is probably already in the Rand Corporations underground laboratories, getting zombified, so that he can come back from that Weekend at Bernie’s and marry this cutealicious wombat-wolverine offspring. ♫Only in America♫ can you move to another state and as soon as you got a year in for residency, or less and run for senator because you got that 'abuse of power' thing in your DNA and your daddy is the donkey punched, bitch of Ehud Barack. “T.S.A! T.S.A! T.S.A!!!” When you got money and connections in the Teratogenic States of America, you can do anything you want to do. If it was against the law before you wanted to do it, it will be against the law not to do it, once you do it. If it's ten pounds of shit in a paper bag to start with, it will be ten pounds of Beluga caviar as soon as 'they' say so. “Oh my! This IS delicious! Yum”!
Maybe some of you out there think I'm exaggerating a tad, or indulging in cynical whoresplay; bored and, like so many in this day and age, dreaming of stabbing kittens with a fork; something Kissinger indulges in and for the same purpose that someone else might use Baoding Balls. Yeah... maybe you think that things like this that happen (and worse, far worse) don't happen. Maybe you think things like this that happen, don't happen. Now, if it happened to be somewhere in Central America, it wouldn't be strange to me at all. This though, this is strange. As crazy as the Teratogenic States of America might be, they're not the only batshit crazy, blowfly infected, maggots in the brain location on 'this sweet swinging sphere'. There's plenty of crazy going on to match up with the crazy happening in the TSA. Fundies to the left of me! Fundies to the right of me! Let me out of here!!!
Yes! Now it's a sport! It makes you tanned and fit just thinking about it, “pass that mega-Slurpee and that basket of Deeeeep Fried Chicken Butt Rings, My ass is welded to the plether of my gamer seat”. Cynical? Moi? Nah... ♫And I think to myself (hanky to the nose) what a wonderful world♫. Of course, I'm not knocking that particular scenario. I would definitely have done the same thing and it is almost a reason to take up the trumpet, even at this late date.
What's the point of Visible's ♫rambling man♫ thing here today? The point is to, hopefully, make it stark raving clear to you that the world is a bonafide lunatic asylum and what is likely to be needed to restore sanity, is likely to be catastrophic, if the awakening resonance doesn't start to replicate some massive multiplications of The Mormon Tabernacle Choir singing, “All Along the Watchtower”.
I watch with a voyeuristic fascination. I almost expect sweat to begin to bead on my brow, as if I had just had a bowl of Madras curry. I watch and I watch this spectacle of the human race, as it boogie boards down on the tidal wave. I can see the lights of Los Angeles twinkling up ahead and way, way down below. Somehow I am riding right along side them, in a virtual reality sort of a way because, I am not right alongside of them. You have to have a shared mindset to bring that off. It's not the sort of thing, where you got into your woodie and drove down to Sunset Beach, with a woodie, (cause you were driving on Sunset to get there and all the babes were jiggling the handle on the sidewalks of Sunset). Then you paddled out and sat there waiting for that wave. No! You just suddenly are there, no matter where you were before you got transported (Cue Jason Statham) and the next thing you know, “there you jolly well are, aren't you”?
Meanwhile, I hear about all kinds of cool people, doing cool things, solo and in groups and I think; well, sure, there's hope, there's promise, there's possibility and... I am an optimist. There is always the chance that the whole world will hear the word, “Cut”! ...all at the same time and then everything gets real quiet and... all over the world, some cat comes out of nowhere in a Banana Republic Safari Suit, with a pair of rimless, rose colored sunglasses and he kind of extends his hands and says, “Good show! Good show! I want to thank you all for having agreed to help me make this movie. There'll be all kinds of after parties, depending on where you're headed from here. I know some of you liked it here so much that you'll be coming back for the next 26,000 years, so... after your after party, you'll want to just head over to wardrobe and get yourselves suited up for the next round. Some of you will be going to other spheres, dimensions, whatever; up down and sideways. Feel free to enjoy the amenities or lack of thereof. There will be an awards ceremony preceding each after party and you will all find yourselves there, just like that”. He snaps his fingers and; what do you know? There we jolly well are.
Meanwhile, the psychopath in chief tells himself that if he had a son, that son might have been like Trayvon. Yes, this pandering, race-baiting, race war starting (and can't even do that right) narcissist, with his narcissist wife and Will Smith, designer children, who has 'Property of the Synagogue of Satan” tattooed on his ass is “in it to win it”! As a Randy Jackson would say.
Alright, why don't we all come to our feet and... those of you who need one, can rest your stomachs on one of the conveniently provided shopping carts; that's what the extend tray at the top is for and... join with me in singing this fine anthem, with the lyrics transformed to reflect the actual status of the country at this time, ♫Oh tragedy of wasted skies, o'er (fly trapped in) amber fields of pain, for purple mountains travesties, above the looted plain♫
We are building to a crescendo, no, it is not a crescendo, it's a trepiditious, with a hint of “not with a bang but a whimper”., or casteneting in a Castaneda way ...but thinking, given that this particular person, is disengaging from formerly (that's why I got this VW-morphlike body), cool running, habitual behaviors of a various kind, I'm left wondering if the place I head off to, has more rules and regulations than where I already am.
Something tells me that I have to think about 9 in the fifth place. Integration and the proffer of harmony are, surely, good and useful gestures but... if you come to a place and you can't access and produce the things you intend to produce, because the limitations of transition to serenity make too much noise, you have to,once again, consider all of your options because success in this particular endeavor is of a far more serious nature than previous mistakes (grin).
Anyway (grin), the suspense is killing me; not really. It's just that with the way the world is, in this long constipated awaiting, almost as if Rodan's “The Thinker” had gone to take a shit and then turned to stone, one always has to keep in mind, the personalities and possibilities, both good and bad, before launching into transition. The whole world is filled with places where one can be, or not be and... I guess it comes down to that, “To be or not to be”, in another sense, meaning; where can you be yourself and what is the wiggle factor, as it concerns the parameters? I must confess, in this case, unlike the Trayvon Zimmerman trial, the jury is still out.
'While the President Makes War' is track no. 8 of 10 on Visible's 2002 album
'911 was an Inside Job'
About this song (pops up)