“Whose International Community?”
‘International community’ does not refer to a global, close-knit community with shared values, a common purpose, and an absence of conflict. Rather, it is a term conveniently used by the unipolar power (the US, its allies and sycophants) to try to shape the destiny of every country on earth in its own image, and to punish those who do not conform.
Protected: Soggy Bottom Camping – Next to Heaven…
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Recipe for Self Stew
Rise to the top of this spicy brew.
Separate yourself
from the oil and the H20.
Evaporate, Condense, Precipitate.
Repeat.
Don’t be too salty.
Be wary of that which opposes your stirring.
Feel the heat.
Feel the acceleration of atoms beneath you.
3rd Person Blues…
Because the Forest is so much more than a Tree?
We fuel our cells with an odd confluence of solids, liquids, and gases. We drive ourselves over the cliffs; wax-wingin’ it to the sun.
But why not breathe? Why not stop and pick the brambles out of your calloused sole/soul? Medicinal beings and happenings await the weary. The willing are found and the songs are belted out across the ether like drunken musings of pirate radio wavestrength.
Must not sleep. Must warn others.
The clock waits for no one yet it will stop.
Once we decide; Decide to quit dividing time as if,
Decide to act upon or wish.
Providing is not our station in life;
Receiving is, Appreciating is, Loving is.
Look up.
Navigating amongst Auras of Negativity
I passed by the enemy today.
The feeling of vengeance unavoidable, the pulsing of the blood unnoticeable beneath the cacophony of adrenal glands and their youthful, hungry militia.
It was THE city traffic cop; the one that drives the Crown Victoria sedan. not THE city parking cop that drives the three-wheeled go-cart, but THE city traffic cop.
He was, as usual, maintaining the security of The Nation and The State by drafting citations to “illegally” parked vehicles.
The immediate free association my mind leaped towards was as follows;
Wild Coyotes
“You reel me out then you cut the string“
Thinking about being left behind for the sake of convenience; for the abusing and the abused and their damned symbiosis.
Walls are erected all around us, and these walls are presumed to be protective of something. What are we protecting ourselves from? The moon? Wild coyotes? One another? The natural world we’ve found ourselves infesting like a natural virus can’t stand to hold the weight of our paradigm of existence.
So our walls will keep our captors in. Keep the idiot wind wafting something fierce through the catacombs our visceral reality. They are enshrined amongst vivid memories, contrasting perceptions of the past, veils of familiarity and jasmine flowers.
By the way, those wild coyotes have actually increased in numbers and in territorial surface area in the time that has passed since the abominable Wasichu arrived in sailing ships.
“Behold, a sacred voice is calling you;
All over the sky a sacred voice is calling.“
I’m not sure how unreasonably insane I am. Feel free to contribute.
Eyes Wide
I woke up with sand between the blue field of sky and I.
The ocean is a dear friend of mine, and I would know more, had I been there. “There is no such thing as coincidence”. I hold on to that truth like the cornerstone of metaphysical consequence it is.
So few to be sure of. So few to hold on to.
Let dreams be dreams. Waking or not.
OR as John Prine says, “You are what you are, you ain’t what you ain’t”.
Tell me I’m not alone. Once upon a time and place that tasted so wholly corrupt; so colorfully plastered with the universal conviction that there was no virus, however deadly, that approached the toxicity of our earth-crushing footprint.
Once upon a time, when Change was what they called the river that flowed uphill; both ways; in the snow; day and night.
The water was blood. The blood is love.
But doesn’t the light blind you when you really listen. Don’t the sounds of the siren’s flowers cut the ties that bind the ego, leaving you wasted in the ditch to bathe in the essence of green life striving…
all alone…
all one.
“Yes, that’s it!”
Earth, it occurred to her, was a sexual globe. Unique, in a solar system of dead rocks, snowballs, and gasbags, Earth was a theater, a rotating stage upon which a thin green scum of organic life acted out countless, continual scenes whose content, whether explicit or oblique, was almost wholly sexual. In the biospherical epic, the players were either Seed Packages or Egg Cartons (a few versatile actors such as the amoeba could perform both roles, but it was a dying art), and the scenery, props, and costumes were designed to enhance or facilitate the coming together of hero seed and heroine egg. The colors, the smells, and the sounds of organic things had evolved as sexual attractants, created to keep the trillion romantic plots moving toward a trillion more-or-less happy endings. Recent observations of the behavior patterns of bonding molecules showed that even on the molecular level, intricate and tricky courtships were constantly transpiring: there was molecular rejection, for example, and presumable molecular heartbreak. Within a broad age span, sexually inactive organisms-plant, animal, molecular, or human-could be said to be aberrations, freakish or pathological misfits out of tune with the harmony of life.
Despite an often ostentatious masculine display that would indicate otherwise, the sexual drama (or melodrama or farce) was largely, historically, directed by the female. That was particularly true among human beings, in which species the male had gone to ludicrous and often violent lengths to compensate for what struck the more insecure of men as an inferior sexual role. One of the lengths to which they went was the establishment of patriarchal religion and the recasting of a father figure as the producer of the show, although from the very beginning, the cosmogonic principal had been feminine. Those men, envious and anxious, not only fired the Great Goddess (who smiled upon all manner of sexual expression, including that which moderns were to label “promiscuous” and “pornographic”), but they also spent thousands of years and billions of dollars trying to conceal the fact of her existence.
[EXCERPT FROM Skinny Legs and All by Tom Robbins]
Pixels
We swam through pixels,
traced our tender fingers
along the perfect lines
of our lovers.
We were 35mm film,
altered-enhanced-imprinted
by the happenings,
by the accidents
of our existence.
As corn chip crumbles,
and cats cease to rest;
As naked trees tremble,
we hibernate.
We wait…
