Hacker for Prime Minister!

A poem

Each night, man enters

the waterfall of dreams

Come dawn, he emerges

victorious,

with swordfish in hand.

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/20/health/20period.html?th&emc=th

Exercise in Poetry Appreciation

My name is an Incantation
An exclamation on the face of ancient men
Looking up at thundering skies
Whispering dark secrets
God to ear to the ear of the Priest
Who wonders in mute amazement
At the will of the demons
His heart beating faster
His legs drenched in the golden rains
The name evokes

My Name...

It is an ancient secret this name
That travels through souls in the kiss of lovers
Entwined in amorous touches
In wide eyed dreams of unknown lights
Like the light of the setting sun
Embraced by darkness
As the God Queen follows
In her large wooden boat
Sails filled with the eastern wind
Down the western abyss
Off the river, off the sea
Off the horizon, off the flat
End of the world
Off the waking edge of her eternal sleep
She follows the Sun down and down

Down the rabbit hole
The black knight knows
The Red Queen wonders
At her ancient quest
Her sacred lust
Among visiting heroes
And snake bitten lovers
Among shadow ghosts that once had lied
And sinned between husbands
Moaning out loud
In the very depths of love
Never looking back
Aided by a clue
She searches for the name
And whispers its power


And says it again
Like the sound of fire
A warning for approaching death
Fearful of what dreams may come
At the misty headed glimpse
Of the cavernous dark
Sticky black pit
Of after-life
Like the mouth of a monster
Beneath his bead

My Name...

She says
Languidly slowly secretly
Quietly
Into ears that are far away
Hearing him breathe
Hearing the silence
Revolving around him
Listening to the quiet stillness
Of a sleeping love
Engulfed by the illusion
And whispers...

The stillness responds
She grasps the illusion
And descends into
Comfortable sleep
Like a serpent’s tongue
In the blades of grass
And towering brown heights
Of forest scenery

Kurt Vonnegut

By VERLYN KLINKENBORG
Published: April 13, 2007, NYT

If you read Kurt Vonnegut when you were young — read all there was of him, book after book as fast as you could the way so many of us did — you probably set him aside long ago. That’s the way it goes with writers we love when we’re young. It’s almost as though their books absorbed some part of our DNA while we were reading them, and rereading them means revisiting a version of ourselves we may no longer remember or trust.

Not that Vonnegut is mainly for the young. I’m sure there are plenty of people who think he is entirely unsuitable for readers under the age of disillusionment. But the time to read Vonnegut is just when you begin to suspect that the world is not what it appears to be. He is the indispensable footnote to everything everyone is trying to teach you, the footnote that pulls the rug out from under the established truths being so firmly avowed in the body of the text.
He is not only entertaining, he is electrocuting. You read him with enormous pleasure because he makes your hair stand on end. He says not only what no one is saying, but also what — as a mild young person — you know it is forbidden to say. No one nourishes the skepticism of the young like Vonnegut. In his world, decency is likelier to be rooted in skepticism than it is in the ardor of faith.

So you get older, and it’s been 20 or 30 years since you last read “Player Piano” or “Cat’s Cradle” or “Slaughterhouse-Five.” Vonnegut is not, now, somehow serious enough. You’ve entered that time of life when every hard truth has to be qualified by the sense of what you stand to lose. “It’s not that simple,” you find yourself saying a lot, and the train of thought that unfolds in your mind as you speak those words reeks of desperation.

And yet, somehow, the world seems more and more to have been written by Vonnegut and your life is now the footnote. Perhaps it is time to go back and revisit that earlier self, the one who seemed, for a while, so interwoven in the pages of those old paperbacks.

Thoughts on Muzac

It's like an old blues song you know -You wake up one mornin...
Everyone wakes up one mornin in a blues song They normally find their woman gone.

Or that they don't have money.

Or in most cases the Key don't open the door no more.

They must be returning from the Crossroads.

Crossroads are places in Blues songs where you pray to the Lord but the Devil teaches you the guitar on a full moonlight in exchange for your Soul.

Most blues musicians sing from their soul. They never had one. It was gone. So they sing from a vacuum. The blue note on the guitar is the sound of emptiness. It sounds better than the songs of most people whose souls have not been sucked out.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When I was a kid I idolized a lot of people. These people acted in movies, sang songs, wrote the books, put movies together... I never thought of these people as people. I had another word for them. I am not sure what that word was because I never really thought of a word...maybe Hero is the word.

Hero is a Greek mythological Character who does fantastic stuff like kill the product of an unlikely coupling of a bull and a lascivious human Queen. Heroes kill these creatures in dark caves and labyrinths and are helped out by beautiful highly fuckable princesses who end up being treated badly in the end by the Heroes. No one in Greek mythology thinks of Heroes as people.

The biggest thing about a Hero is that they do things which people Cannot do. People when asked to do the same thing will say "That's not what I am supposed to do...that's what Heroes should do". People make money, complain about their lives and procreate. Heroes do the same better and also do other things which people don't think of doing because they think only Heroes can do it.

Here's an example

Heroes can fuck a lot of women if they wanted. People cannot do that. Women like to get fucked by Heroes. They prefer Heroes to people if you really wanted to know.

John Lennon, Dylan, Jagger, Townsend, Marquez, Schultz, Beethoven, Godard, Lynch, Kubrick, Brando, Dean, Groucho, Woody, Bugs Bunny, Rushdie, Shakespeare, Homer, Ulysses, Salinger, Marilyn Monroe, Carl Sagan, Muddy Waters... my Acropolis had NO Vacancy boards on all its doors.

The stories on the lives of these Heroes often sounded like Greek myths. They sounded like that to a lot of people…including women people. These Heroes also got to fuck a lot of women. I am not sure if Bugs Bunny did.

Now I am not a Hero. I know that. But now I am thinking if Heroes are people. I am not sure but I have this very bad feeling that they are.

That would be very sad because that tells me, amidst various other shattering revelations, that I am letting other people fuck a lot of women and have a lot of fun just because I (and other people) think that our Heroes are not people. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am newly liberated. I like this anonymity.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------