Yeah, war is dumb.
This morning, after some slow-speaking street kid had to ask me twice whether I wanted to buy pot, and I declined, he turned around and walked off in the opposite direction. On his jacket, I noticed a bumper sticker that read: FOUR MORE WARS, and I was impressed with the simplicity of that statement.
Hey, you want to see something kind of scary? Check this out.
Pay special attention to the names at the bottom of the page.
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dr. johnson, this is senator russell with a poem
MAYBE 11/8-9/2004
(for a redirected redefining of a million words & ideas, especially the culture of death)
dedicated to poems everywhere with expiration dates (4 years and counting)
maybe I’m not afraid, I’m not going to just give in. and I do recognize it’s nonsense to believe in any of it anymore, as a suspectable assault on my unsensing. repeating and repeating conditioning of my leper skinned shackle town sandystormline. I and the time travel torqued into compost. potably postmodern, so scientology. let’s displace the surface of the slime and masque it sexy, elect a pressure select a severed head and present it proofread. reread history as a natural selectomy. but still, I’m not afraid. I do not cower
what is this evil we face so entirely? these books spilling out of shelved illiterati in liberal majority, tattletailing the lizard kings in their supermarked geometry tattooed on every city? Fascist shrubbery and neo-classist corrective surgery? a country bleeding red states and stepkidding cosmopolitical sub-urban and rerural? we’re pluracity subdued. the older I am…instead of citizens. seek therapy, make and register recompense on the elimidate events that’ll follow. fragment of a pin city built on sinking incorporate isonightmare
the waking once more subliminated. and then there’s that sordid “I speak for the crazies in cracktown.” our watered down message demeaned into outrageous abortive behavior dedile, subtract vocation from taxtile while the elaboration confirms our exile. “ridiculous!” shouted through a muted mouth-piece without instrument at easily disassociated bodies this country chooses not to see through the mist of the moral mismantle, lense of uncrinkle. shout at your selfsingle. ring ring rethinking. unmingle
power to the people. or as patti smith writes, "the people have the power." I guess we shall see or be unseen. under a free reign eating french-fries graveyardmouthed at the buststop. we’ve a long uphill battle to retake the minds of pissed off americans before we replace one murder with another deathdealer. listening to the sex pistols this wail "no future" in the cockney made me remember: from the platonic core, “only the dead shall see the end of war” and repeat it, and I swore, I shall not. perish at the hands of a terrorist.
don’t embarrass me people. no irony involved. shall not, period, perish at the hands of and the delusion is grandeur. I see the end of calendars as a crypt we must cash in on. imagine all the people? I relish at the opportunity. bring me apocalypse, oh sermon archneutralist! I declare the suicide superb. memorize the skyline you won’t see it nevermore. don’t you worry wealthy underclass, gone are the days of rosy facefucking. what’s the length of the line you’ll stand in to unvote? it’s the end of the world maybe
p.s. what is the drum speaking at the center of you? is it a harmonica?
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