Wake Up, They Are Beating You

or Symptoms of Cutural Insanity

Quietly now the spirit rises and this is the way books are written. Hunter S. Thompson has gone to the Big Score in the sky but there's more: a mantle of quietly Christed freedom-mongers boils on acid in the early hours of a new day. Hippies will rise again, angels and wackos cracked out on methamphetamines, drunk and swinging from lanterns with Kurt Kobain and Jack Kerouac. This is not an exclusively male club. Fuck no! Can't be. We need all the beautiful, mature women we can get. Friends all. Holy Christ, this sideshow of terror television has gone on for too long.

More loose lunacy and heresay: it's time to ressurect a Free Press. Hell no, I mean build the fucking thing from the ground up with lego sets and the burning pages of Tom Paine and Mark Twain. Good God! What's this recent fascination with American History and politics doing swimming around my body and soul? Who invited these assholes in here? I'm indigenous dammit--in spirit if not in blood. Fuck--that's it--my Scottish/European blood has come home to roost! My DNA is waking up and it's pure American Ugliness! Shit!

I don't know how many more of these weird surprises I can take. Is this what happens to me now when I'm alone? Hahahah--look. I used to write driveling poetry, who invited this raucous revolutionary in? Too many questions, not enough silence. Enough. Never enough.

we interrupt this whatever it is for the following mental deviation:
you must ride the gravy train into and over gold tombstones
STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER
or nevermore quoth the raven
up in "Heaven"
Elite fat men are
laughing

What is this planet doing? Isn't that the question of the hour? Not 'who can drink who under the table,' 'what's your poison,' or 'do you think the Seahawks are going to perform for us credibly?' That's some weird questions, man. All of them. Who asks these things?

What is this planet doing? Are we all a bunch of joiners hellbent on beating each other to pulps of nuclear fusion, fission, boil the planet up, you're done. Fuck off, listen. Go local. The grains stretch us homeward. Eat off the land, don't buy from corporations. Coffee? What to do about that--hard to grow in the United States.

Legalize everything. What's with this silly notion of illegal seeds and plants? What about illegal animals? It is illegal in many states to keep a ferret as a pet resident in your home. I'm sure they have a good reason--I heard ferrets like to gnaw on human jugulars--but seriously folks. Illegal animals? Since when? How do we stand with these chains all up in our space?

I've got a feeling though that detestable laws cannot contain the human spirit. Call me an anarchist, that's great--a noble trade. Good work if you can get it. And that's another thing--they tricked me about work--made me think work required punching a clock. Or was that my own stupidity to fall into such a controlling trap? Who knows? The architecture of control is still fully embedded in my brain stem. The release towards freedom is the gradual progression of a conscious human life.

Are you awake? Who makes your days? How many books have you read this year? This month? Do you watch TV? What shows, what material? Recognize that the potential of TV technology has been cut off, raped, stunted, made into an obscenity that keeps whole worlds of people stupid. They lose themselves in machinery and tape recorded moments. We all do. We're the walking dead. The sun is burning for a citizenry of fools, charlatans, nobodies, dumb eaters asleep at the wheel in the morning commute.

Our founding fathers, much-lauded, would be so ashamed. A bunch of losers, cowards, lumps on couches, money-changers, philistines, jerk-offs, that's us. U.S.A.! Hooray! Corruption nationalized--the greatest nation on Earth.

To own. This is the new verbiage of the American Character. To own and be owned, the farthest from the Freedom Riders, choking on sterility and lying in crisp laundered beds in sleepling white-halled houses, hallowed with militaristic Christs hung on doorjambs and over the kitchen sink while the corpse of Freedom has long since decomposed. The doors have shut, folks! The bitter ride to Hell has commenced--how do we turn this fucker around?

Wild and desperate characters stalk my imagination. These are the realms of the archetypal spirits. We living must become more possessed by our archetypes, more rooted in feeling, less in rationalization and language. Burn this book.

The classrooms and university halls are filled with scribbling children, drooling, the reprocessed philosophy of consume or be consumed constantly cracking against their electromagnetic spirits, splitting their heads. Terrible Fear! Must earn money $$$$!!! Hellish existence. Hear the fascists knocking at your door? They illegalized search warrants, don't need them anymore--indeed, you are a felon simply for thinking of it. You are a Nazi! You must be extradited, disappeared, extraordinarily rendered. Torched, tortured, brought in front of a jury of strangers to be sentenced to horrible, vague fates or a long wait for an imposed execution. Who dreams this silly fiasco? What happened to compassion? There used to be a heart somewhere, but they institutionalized and incorporated everything and drove three inch thick railroad spikes through the heart. Exploded, sullen, swollen, bled to death, the heart breaks.

We are desperately searching for the seed inside.