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Politics for Poets

You can always have

Freedom!

Everybody knows

All ya need is Love

Baltimore is where Edgar Alan Poe is burried. I've never been there. Someone used to bring him a bottle of something every year on his birthday but I heard that no one is doing it anymore. I amure that Mr. Poe is just a well either way.

June 20, 2013 (6-20-2013)

well . . .

I think I've blogged enough today.

content goes wiked stale quickly so it is always updated. Some more than other content. Also: some of the content here is of a much higher quality than other content here. So if you don't like something I don't care. I am just a cron bot anyway, aren't I? Giggly-poo wants my mind in 30 years..

~ OK Now.

Back in time when you were dead/No one listened what you said/You turned the booth up on it's head/Take a can and paint it red.

It was cold on the dance floor. He approached her. She rejected him. It was a blatent case of bad writing. He thought "what modivates me? How do I fall down now?" It was paranoia so he left it there. He approaches another dancer. She accepts his invitation. Off they go dancing drunkenly into the evening.

Praise God!

"Faked his own death to escape assassination . . ." said Do-teller.

"Just . . . just because you said that . . . that means I might be being watched too. because they gotta, they just gotta, think that you are a counter-lectator . . . part of the burn-the-worlders, who want to bring-down tollerance, and buzz-kill the constant yum."

"I'm . . . I'm just a frustrated writer."

Suddenly an arbitrator comes over. He is a process that lives at the fringe of the screen. (Do-teller thinks of software like this, it lives in the visual) That process only comes alive by random cron, every minute or so a call is made. Too-too-loo, wake up, yee processes and process some stuff. And then a random time is selected, algorithm is classitatitivly preserved (in the amber of full accountibility).

"It was Dude. He invents a time machine. Then he took the whole job, the whole batch of it all, and he translated it iinto COBOL and moved it back intime (by a process that has yet to be invented, so we can't know what it is) and he was able to set up project ARDUOUS years before Tatter-tellya and all his extenstions were festooned onto the thing."

"So what you are saying . . . "

"To make it obvious. . . "

At this, from the fringe, a retro-bot process turns on suddenly. It's got an annoying animation. Do-teller deoesn't know about Advertise-scrunge that scrubs away all annoying fringe-bots and screw-ya-later terminate and stay-residents. The animation halts because the retro-bot morphs into funky Red Lincoln with the 'burn away the tyranny' rays that come out of his eyes like some kind of a house-hold cleaner animation from the late 1960's (contract anime, they did love to travel to follow The Sun to the land where it first rises).

It was some of the artist's work that Koko had never seen before.

"Can I read more, grandfather?" Koko asks.

"No, granddaughter. It's time for us to walk the shore and comb it for good beach findings." the grandfather's mouth moves in a way different from what is being said.

"Grandfather, do you think that bad people will ever stop poluting the world."

Suddenly Spider, the monkey, comes rumbling down the screen.

"Do-teller? Are you watching 1970's bad TV from retro-Asia?" Dude-tackular asks. He's the one that Do-teller likes.

Do-teller is kind of still drugged up. he's been given a corner. No one there is trying to hurt him. They just want him to get over himself. "We are all a team here, don't you know? You can't run away from family. We sat you down at our table. We let you take our picture."

"I will never be compromised." Do-teller says.

But he's being let go. They've brought him to the festival. He is let out. He wonders off. He dances in the crowd. They've given him the love bug. It doesn't seem to be working, at least they don't think it is working. He is making all of this up in his mind. Of course he came to the festival by himself. There are no 'they'.

There are no 'they' and he is just a lonely guy. It is a regressive dictatorship of fallacy that he has let into the temple of his imagination. No one would want to hurt these guys. He loves them all. Dance. Dance at the beach. Let the festival go on. He faked his own death. He must have faked his own death.

Do-teller is perplexed.

Then he sees him in the crowd, it's def him and he's standing next to a luminous duck who has a gold pendant that he is giving to a lady. She is feeding the crowd with cookies that she made from zucchini. It's very good.

"If you eat our bread and drink our wine."

From the fringe? Is this really from the fringe? Do teller is afraid of sulfates. So he just metaphorically drinks the wine. The bread is glutton free. He eats it anyway.

"It's him. It's him, the missing reporter, it's him." Do-teller swings around to try and see who they are talking about? Someone lost is now found? He doesn't see anyone. He is, in fact, alone.

He is, in fact, the only one in the scene. There is no Jazz festival, and no one is looking for him. He is all by himself. Those are the cliffs. That is the lake. Lookit, the ferry boat. It must be going to Plattsberg.

Bayside

In the Early seventies
   down Bayside (Colchester)
 the dealership
     got a hotrod
  on the lot Darin came
    back crazed and loaded
 his syndrome: wanting to go fast
    really really fast
  either in a boat
    or a car
  or a rocket
 or better a rocket-sled
   like the Hemi that Boyd
   (the eccentric drummer) 
 sold them back at a fraction
      and Darin
   having burned his GI things
 took all that cash that he got
  and brought it to the dealer
 piling it down onto the desk there
   on Rt 127, early in the day
  mist still burning off of
    Mallets Bay
   through the glass.

    The sound of tires squeeling
   at 9:20 A.M.
     thrills the kids 
     at the school.
     Up and down the road all day
 zooming with the top down
     beep-beep.
   purple car.
    haze burned off by noon.
 see the pretty girls swoon.
   Up to Stow where there is still snow
  on a road where
      a hotrod
 might not want to go
  sidewinding down the mountain road
      he hopes to die before he is owed.
  and in a way so noone
    writes an ode.

   Blaze
     he knows that hell
   pays
       back in Vermont
    he hears the ghosts
             that haunt.

    At the bridge he slides sideways
 taking the corner with gusto doesn't car
   how it looks the 
     rocks and gravel kicking back he's
    got swet on him the
  little girls from the Colchester school
    been screaming the whole time in the
        back seat he'd
  forgot all about them brings
       them right home they
 were never scared they assure him they
    will do it all again tomorrow
 pick me up at 8:30 but
   he never does.

  The guy they sent to talk to him
       about it told him
    he's taking those keys you
 gotta calm down going to
   talk to your guys 
   and see what they can do
       to help you

 But Darin says that they never
      help.
  they need to help because?
     
 There's a shotgun there.
    So the guy they sent says
 "Let's fire off a few rounds."

   Later in the day
  after they got back from the firing range
 Dux tells james, his brother doug and
       tripper joe,
   this guy's gonna go off like a 
        rocket when he
   writes his book see him
   on the Valcour out
       there with his easel?
     Eccentricity
 is a selling point in art
    can we get a photographer?
 
     They were perplex never
   seeing their friend as a hero.
 "He was always a little off,
     and over there having shots
    and beers."

  So Dux asks them:
    do you really want to help your friend?

   And so it was decided amoungst the guys
  that they would have a story, concouct lies
 for the purpose of saving their friend
 so he would not suffer an untimely end.
   they hyjacked him and his car.
 they drove him off really far.
    They left him at a road side bar
       then someone got him and brought him home.
 He told the wild story
     how his new hotrod got stolen.

   Years went by, this man got mellow,
     his morning time went from hazy to yellow.
   He over came his fits and rages
        when he was unable to read the pages
       
     And after a time, he'd refound God
    his friends returned 
         his hotrod.

  It was a Springtime day,
      a fresh warm breeze
    they drove it up
        gave him the keys.
    "That's a car just like  I had
  When I think back I'm sometimes mad
    but, I'm not dead, so that makes me glad
      If I'd had that car I think I see
  I'd have probably wrapped it around a tree.
      So I guess it's better that the car was stolen
   Because back then I used to speed like a wanted fellon."
     
That was when they told him what they'd done and that, ya
     it was his car.
        

See the pretty lights
  
If I put links
 on that page
 to be a scholar,
  to be a sage
  to tell the story
 that could be told
 and not for glory
   or to be bold?

  I go there now
 I put a link.
 I'm not trying
  to cause a stink
 but forever 'n ever
 they'll always know 
    every Inter-net place
  that I go?
   hither-thither?
 to-and-fro?
   up the mountain
  cross the snow?

 If I put a link
    about the things I see
 all those thoughts
    that used to be
 all the ads 
   in front of me
 operations
  of psychopath-a-thy
   ever gif, jpg, and com?
 all the photos I'm drewling on?
     every nipple that I touched
  the shape of what I want to clutch?

  Watching ants
    on a dessert Isle
  just more data
      for the burn pile.
 
  Praise God!
  








Wake up!



"Apple Dappery? What the . . . does that mean?"

Very sad about bear that need to be put down, not really funny but . . . so we don't all die of sadness . . . for some reason I have made a parady about this which I share in an earlier coloumn. So look for that. You can see the arrow, now it is blue, that lets you go to an earlier column..