Earthrites

Wherever you are is the entry point – Kabir

July 4, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

A Different Drummer

Well… Happy 4th.

Hope this finds you in a good place, and contemplating declaring a few new rights…

Like,

The Right To Think.

The Right Of Personal Sovereignty….among many others.

Time to move foreward, and declare a new state of affairs….

This Edition:

Declaration of Human Rights

Poetry of an American Original

Links

Pics…

Enjoy.

Gwyllm

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Hero of the Second American Revolution…

“we are after cognitive liberty now… the freedom to think, the freedom to reason”





Universal Declaration of Human Rights

Preamble

Whereas recognition of the inherent dignity and of the equal and inalienable rights of all members of the human family is the foundation of freedom, justice and peace in the world,

Whereas disregard and contempt for human rights have resulted in barbarous acts which have outraged the conscience of mankind, and the advent of a world in which human beings shall enjoy freedom of speech and belief and freedom from fear and want has been proclaimed as the highest aspiration of the common people,

Whereas it is essential, if man is not to be compelled to have recourse, as a last resort, to rebellion against tyranny and oppression, that human rights should be protected by the rule of law,

Whereas it is essential to promote the development of friendly relations between nations,

Whereas the peoples of the United Nations have in the Charter reaffirmed their faith in fundamental human rights, in the dignity and worth of the human person and in the equal rights of men and women and have determined to promote social progress and better standards of life in larger freedom,

Whereas Member States have pledged themselves to achieve, in cooperation with the United Nations, the promotion of universal respect for and observance of human rights and fundamental freedoms,

Whereas a common understanding of these rights and freedoms is of the greatest importance for the full realization of this pledge,

Now, therefore,

The General Assembly,

Proclaims this Universal Declaration of Human Rights as a common standard of achievement for all peoples and all nations, to the end that every individual and every organ of society, keeping this Declaration constantly in mind, shall strive by teaching and education to promote respect for these rights and freedoms and by progressive measures, national and international, to secure their universal and effective recognition and observance, both among the peoples of Member States themselves and among the peoples of territories under their jurisdiction.

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America

America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing.

America two dollars and twenty-seven cents January 17, 1956.

I can’t stand my own mind.

America when will we end the human war?

Go fuck yourself with your atom bomb

I don’t feel good don’t bother me.

I won’t write my poem till I’m in my right mind.

America when will you be angelic?

When will you take off your clothes?

When will you look at yourself through the grave?

When will you be worthy of your million Trotskyites?

America why are your libraries full of tears?

America when will you send your eggs to India?

I’m sick of your insane demands.

When can I go into the supermarket and buy what I need with my good looks?

America after all it is you and I who are perfect not the next world.

Your machinery is too much for me.

You made me want to be a saint.

There must be some other way to settle this argument.

Burroughs is in Tangiers I don’t think he’ll come back it’s sinister.

Are you being sinister or is this some form of practical joke?

I’m trying to come to the point.

I refuse to give up my obsession.

America stop pushing I know what I’m doing.

America the plum blossoms are falling.

I haven’t read the newspapers for months, everyday somebody goes on trial for

murder.

America I feel sentimental about the Wobblies.

America I used to be a communist when I was a kid and I’m not sorry.

I smoke marijuana every chance I get.

I sit in my house for days on end and stare at the roses in the closet.

When I go to Chinatown I get drunk and never get laid.

My mind is made up there’s going to be trouble.

You should have seen me reading Marx.

My psychoanalyst thinks I’m perfectly right.

I won’t say the Lord’s Prayer.

I have mystical visions and cosmic vibrations.

America I still haven’t told you what you did to Uncle Max after he came over

from Russia.

I’m addressing you.

Are you going to let our emotional life be run by Time Magazine?

I’m obsessed by Time Magazine.

I read it every week.

Its cover stares at me every time I slink past the corner candystore.

I read it in the basement of the Berkeley Public Library.

It’s always telling me about responsibility. Businessmen are serious. Movie

producers are serious. Everybody’s serious but me.

It occurs to me that I am America.

I am talking to myself again.

Asia is rising against me.

I haven’t got a chinaman’s chance.

I’d better consider my national resources.

My national resources consist of two joints of marijuana millions of genitals

an unpublishable private literature that goes 1400 miles and hour and

twentyfivethousand mental institutions.

I say nothing about my prisons nor the millions of underpriviliged who live in

my flowerpots under the light of five hundred suns.

I have abolished the whorehouses of France, Tangiers is the next to go.

My ambition is to be President despite the fact that I’m a Catholic.

America how can I write a holy litany in your silly mood?

I will continue like Henry Ford my strophes are as individual as his

automobiles more so they’re all different sexes

America I will sell you strophes $2500 apiece $500 down on your old strophe

America free Tom Mooney

America save the Spanish Loyalists

America Sacco Vanzetti must not die

America I am the Scottsboro boys.

America when I was seven momma took me to Communist Cell meetings they

sold us garbanzos a handful per ticket a ticket costs a nickel and the

speeches were free everybody was angelic and sentimental about the

workers it was all so sincere you have no idea what a good thing the party

was in 1935 Scott Nearing was a grand old man a real mensch Mother

Bloor made me cry I once saw Israel Amter plain. Everybody must have

been a spy.

America you don’re really want to go to war.

America it’s them bad Russians.

Them Russians them Russians and them Chinamen. And them Russians.

The Russia wants to eat us alive. The Russia’s power mad. She wants to take

our cars from out our garages.

Her wants to grab Chicago. Her needs a Red Reader’s Digest. her wants our

auto plants in Siberia. Him big bureaucracy running our fillingstations.

That no good. Ugh. Him makes Indians learn read. Him need big black niggers.

Hah. Her make us all work sixteen hours a day. Help.

America this is quite serious.

America this is the impression I get from looking in the television set.

America is this correct?

I’d better get right down to the job.

It’s true I don’t want to join the Army or turn lathes in precision parts

factories, I’m nearsighted and psychopathic anyway.

America I’m putting my queer shoulder to the wheel.

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Spear Point Found

Cascade Point Examples

9,000-year-old spear head found by Canadian hikers



The spot that a pair of Jasper residents (Alberta, Canada) chose for a hike recently could have been a hunting area for a pre-contact civilization more than 5,000 years ago. That’s what the evidence tells Parks Canada archaeologists about a spear point spotted by Sheila Couture and Karen Byers in late May as they were walking in the Cinqfoil Ridge area, east of the townsite.

“We just stopped to talk and looked down…it was black and everything else was neutral coloured,” said Couture. “I thought because it was so symmetrical and it was dark, ‘this is something’…and it was something,” They gave the small spear point to Mike Dillon, cultural resource warden with Jasper National Park. He in turn showed it to archaeologists who work for the park.

After studying it, they believe it is a ‘Cascade point’. It’s a point type found in the interior plateau of southern B.C. and northern Washington, in the Cascade Mountains region.

This type of projectile point dates between 5,000 and 9,000 years ago, according to Dillon. The dating is determined by archaeological knowledge of technology types used by early civilizations. Experts think it is probably closer to the 8,000-9,000 year range because of the fine craftsmanship they see in the working of the point. More modern points tend to lack the same kind of craftsmanship. “That’s pretty neat,” said Couture. “Just to think that you’re holding something in your hand that somebody else who lived that long ago did as well.” The artefact is believed to be made of black chert – a type of hard stone on which a fine edge can be produced because of the crystal structure.

Dillon said there are several theories as to how an artefact believed to be from another area ended up in Jasper National Park. Someone from the Cascade area who was here could have made it, or someone from that area could have simply brought it here. Another possibility is that it was traded between someone from that area and another person from this area. “My guess is that whoever was there was probably hunting, for sheep or goats given the steep terrain they were in…threw it at an animal, missed and continued on with the chase and weren’t able to recover it,” said Dillon. “Or possibly, it stuck into an animal and the animal ran off with it and died later.” Parks also believes that the artefact is an isolated find because of the terrain in which it was sitting. The surroundings indicate that it was probably a hunting area and not a spot where people would have lived, camped or made tools.

The spear point was sent to a Parks Canada regional office to be looked at, and it will then be returned to the park as a part of the cultural resource collection. It will likely become part of a small mobile display that can be brought out at special events in the park or shown at various locations, like the local museum, on a temporary basis.

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Starving with Louis…

Excellent video production of cooking on the cheap. Surviving as students in America, Louis and friends are very creative in the kitchen! A must see for those with little cash on hand.

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Mapping the Brain..

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Electric Shock Treatment for the Internet…

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Ah… youth

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Ask Homer….

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Contestant Torture…

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For the Lovecraft Freaks out there…

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4th of July in the Heart of Amerika





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Howl

I

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked,

dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix,

angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night,

who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats

floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz,

who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- ment roofs

illuminated,

who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy among the

scholars of war,

who were expelled from the academies for crazy & publishing obscene odes on the windows of the skull,

who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- ing their money in wastebaskets and listening to the Terror

through the wall,

who got busted in their pubic beards returning through Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York,

who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their torsos night after night

with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- cohol and cock and endless balls,

incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of Canada &

Paterson, illuminating all the mo- tionless world of Time between,

Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, storefront

boroughs of teahead joyride neon blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree vibrations in the roaring winter dusks

of Brook- lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind,

who chained themselves to subways for the endless ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine until the noise of

wheels and children brought them down shuddering mouth-wracked and battered bleak of brain all drained of

brilliance in the drear light of Zoo,

who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford’s floated out and sat through the stale beer after noon in desolate

Fugazzi’s, listening to the crack of doom on the hydrogen jukebox,

who talked continuously seventy hours from park to pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- lyn Bridge,

lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills off Empire State

out of the moon,

yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks and shocks of

hospitals and jails and wars,

whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the Synagogue cast on

the pavement,

who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic City Hall,

suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- ings and migraines of China under junk-with- drawal in

Newark’s bleak furnished room,

who wandered around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no

broken hearts,

who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- father night,

who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- stinctively

vibrated at their feet in Kansas,

who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- ionary indian angels who were visionary indian angels,

who thought they were only mad when Baltimore gleamed in supernatural ecstasy,

who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- homa on the impulse of winter midnight street light smalltown

rain,

who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the brilliant Spaniard

to converse about America and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship to Africa,

who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees and the lava and

ash of poetry scattered in fire place Chicago,

who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist eyes sexy in their

dark skin passing out incom- prehensible leaflets,

who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism,

who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union Square weeping and undressing while the sirens of Los Alamos

wailed them down, and wailed down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also wailed,

who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked and trembling before the machinery of other skeletons,

who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight in policecars for committing no crime but their own wild

cooking pederasty and intoxication,

who howled on their knees in the subway and were dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- scripts,

who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly motorcyclists, and screamed with joy,

who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean love,

who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose gardens and the grass of public parks and cemeteries scattering

their semen freely to whomever come who may,

who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath when the blond

& naked angel came to pierce them with a sword,

who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar the one eyed

shrew that winks out of the womb and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but sit on her ass and snip the intellectual

golden threads of the craftsman’s loom,

who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- dle and fell off

the bed, and continued along the floor and down the hall and ended fainting on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt

and come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness,

who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning but prepared

to sweeten the snatch of the sun rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked in the lake,

who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these poems, cocksman and

Adonis of Denver-joy to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses’

rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- ticoat upliftings &

especially secret gas-station solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too,

who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and picked themselves up

out of basements hung over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy-

ment offices,

who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the East River to open

to a room full of steamheat and opium,

who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime blue floodlight of

the moon & their heads shall be crowned with laurel in oblivion,

who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of Bowery,

who wept at the romance of the streets with their pushcarts full of onions and bad music,

who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts,

who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded by orange crates

of theology,

who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning were stanzas of

gibberish,

who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable kingdom,

who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for an egg,

who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks fell on their

heads every day for the next decade,

who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- fully, gave up and were forced to open antique stores where

they thought they were growing old and cried,

who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse & the tanked-up

clatter of the iron regiments of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of

sinis- ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality,

who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- pened and walked away unknown and forgotten into the

ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer,

who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- saic, leaped on

negroes, cried all over the street, danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed phonograph records of nostalgic

European 1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans in their ears

and the blast of colossal steam whistles,

who barreled down the highways of the past journeying to each other’s hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude watch or

Birmingham jazz incarnation,

who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had a vision to find

out Eternity,

who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who came back to Denver & waited in vain, who watched over Denver

& brooded & loned in Denver and finally went away to find out the Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes,

who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying for each other’s salvation and light and breasts, until the soul

illuminated its hair for a second,

who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for impossible criminals with golden heads and the charm of reality in

their hearts who sang sweet blues to Alcatraz,

who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys or Southern Pacific

to the black locomotive or Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the daisychain or grave,

who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp notism & were left with their insanity & their hands & a hung

jury,

who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism and subsequently presented themselves on the granite steps of

the madhouse with shaven heads and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- stantaneous lobotomy,

and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- therapy

occupational therapy pingpong & amnesia,

who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia,

returning years later truly bald except for a wig of blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad man doom of the

wards of the madtowns of the East,

Pilgrim State’s Rockland’s and Greystone’s foetid halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- ing and rolling in

the midnight solitude-bench dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the

moon,

with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book flung out of the tenement window, and the last door closed at

4. A.M. and the last telephone slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- nished room emptied down to the last

piece of mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that imaginary, nothing

but a hopeful little bit of hallucination

ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and now you’re really in the total animal soup of time

and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use of the ellipse the

catalog the meter & the vibrat- ing plane,

who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space through images juxtaposed, and trapped the archangel of the

soul between 2 visual images and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun and dash of consciousness together

jumping with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna Deus

to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human prose and stand before you speechless and intel- ligent and shaking

with shame, rejected yet con- fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm of thought in his naked and endless head,

the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, yet putting down here what might be left to say in time come

after death,

and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the suffering of

America’s naked mind for love into an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone cry that shivered the cities down to

the last radio

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand years.

II

What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- nation?

Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob tainable dollars! Children screaming under the stairways! Boys

sobbing in armies! Old men weeping in the parks!

Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy judger of men!

Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of sorrows! Moloch whose

buildings are judgment! Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- ned governments!

Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers are ten armies!

Moloch whose breast is a canni- bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking tomb!

Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long streets like endless

Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose smokestacks and antennae crown the

cities!

Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch whose poverty is the

specter of genius! Moloch whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! Moloch whose name is the Mind!

Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in Moloch! Lacklove and

manless in Moloch!

Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch who frightened me

out of my natural ecstasy! Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! Light streaming out of the sky!

Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic industries! spectral

nations! invincible mad houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs!

They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to Heaven which

exists and is everywhere about us!

Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! gone down the American river!

Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!

Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- spairs! Ten years’

animal screams and suicides! Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on the rocks of Time!

Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! They jumped off the

roof! to solitude! waving! carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the street!

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland where you’re madder than I am

I’m with you in Rockland where you must feel very strange

I’m with you in Rockland where you imitate the shade of my mother

I’m with you in Rockland where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries

I’m with you in Rockland where you laugh at this invisible humor

I’m with you in Rockland where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter

I’m with you in Rockland where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio

I’m with you in Rockland where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses

I’m with you in Rockland where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica

I’m with you in Rockland where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx

I’m with you in Rockland where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of

the abyss

I’m with you in Rockland where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die

ungodly in an armed madhouse

I’m with you in Rockland where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a

cross in the void

I’m with you in Rockland where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against

the fascist national Golgotha

I’m with you in Rockland where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from

the superhuman tomb

I’m with you in Rockland where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- rades all together singing the final stanzas

of the Internationale

I’m with you in Rockland where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs

all night and won’t let us sleep

I’m with you in Rockland where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the

roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- lapse O skinny legions run

outside O starry spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here O victory forget your underwear we’re free

I’m with you in Rockland in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- journey on the highway across America in tears

to the door of my cottage in the Western night

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I declare a Summer of Renewed Love.

I declare a Summer of Renewed Exploration.

I declare a Summer of Renewed Community.

Let Us Dance To A Different Drummer!

Pax,

Gwyllm

(More Tomorrow!)

July 1, 2005
by gwyllm
0 comments

Babel….

“The Sun of the One I love has risen in the night,

Resplendent, and there will be no more sunset…

I saw my Lord with the eye of the heart, and I

said

“Who are you?” and he said, “Your Self.”

– Al Hallâj







I first discovered our featured writer back in 74, 75. She was like a shining beacon for those stranded in those dire times. A poetess, a rocker, someone who knew. I discovered her as I discovered Baudelaire, Rimbaud, Verlaine… Poets and writers that shaped my mind in the late 70’s. Poetry was a huge, huge influence on what was going on then in New York, London and LA. All these French guys seemed to be channeled through our focus today, Patti Smith..

I collected her books, her records, and was falling in love as her song, Because The Night came out… It became “our song” (yeah corny, but hey everyone is entitled!)

So, there are some strong emotional ties with her works. I still love her work, and I find myself going back to Babel and her other works to this day….

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present… Patti Smith

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Because The Night











Take me now baby here as I am

Pull me close try an understand

I work all day out in the hot sun

Stay with me now till the mornin’ comes

Come on now try and understand

The way I feel when I’m in your hands

Take me now as the sun descends

They can’t hurt you now

They can’t hurt you now

They can’t hurt you now

Because the night belongs to lovers

Because the night belongs to us

Because the night belongs to lovers

Because the night belongs to us

What I got I have earned

What I’m not I have learned

Desire and hunger is the fire I breathe

Just stay in my bed till the morning comes

Come on now try and understand

The way I feel when I’m in your hands

Take me now as the sun descends

They can’t hurt you now

They can’t hurt you now

They can’t hurt you now

Because the night…

Your love is here and now

The vicious circle turns and burns without

Though I cannot live forgive me now

The time has come to take this moment and

They can’t hurt you now

Because the night…

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Making ourselves heard….

A handful of Dirt for Liberty…

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poem from les nouvelles polyphonies corses’ in paradisu album

by patti smith


[printed in all caps in cd booklet]

OH BELOVED IT IS SO

THY WRATH, THY WRATH IS SO

THESE FEET, THESE BURNING FEET

MOVE UPON THY WRATH

PRAISE THEE IN THEIR DANCE

WITH OUTSTRETCHED PALMS

THY WRATH IS COME

CONSUMED IN FLAME

OF LIFE OF LOVE

MAY THY ANGER

BE SLOW, BE SWEET

MAY IT DISCIPATE

LIFT NOT THY HOLY HANDS

AGAINST ME

TAKE MY BURNING ARMS

MY TURNING SKIRTS

TO THY TRUTH

TO THY

TRANSPARENT

BREAST

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Zippy the Pin Head President in a succinct 28 second video. Special message at the end

Cutting to the Talking Points

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This is mind boggling….

Voluntary Scarification for Rampant Capitalism…

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Oh arthur arthur, we are in Abyssinia Aden making

love smoking cigarettes. we kiss. but its much more.

azure. blue pool. oil slick lake. sensations telescope.

animate. crystalline gulf. balls of colored glass

exploding. seam of berber tent splitting. openings,

open as a cave, open wider. total surrender.

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think of Satan as some stud

maybe her knees were open.

Satan snakes between them.

they open wider

snakes up her thighs

rub against her clit for awhile

more than the tree of knowledge was about

to be eaten…she shudders her first shudder

pleasure pleasure garden

was she sorry

are we ever girls

was she a good lay

god only knows

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I ride the stallion thru the dust storm, my guardian

rides along side me.

I have been warned beforehand

that this is a life or death ride.

no grays. no subtle

shades.

no middle ground.

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Excellent site. This section is especially priceless….!

LSD….







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flying saucers rock ‘n’ roll

by patti smith

[from Crawdaddy, June 1975]

I

The sheets were soaking. Wet pajama tops sticking to hot belly. I rolled over and jimmied my flashlight from its safety slot between the mattress and the boxspring. Ha! My belly was still a deep prickly pink, it burned my hand just to touch. I pressed the flashlight into my palm to make a red x-ray halo ’round my fingers. I leaned over the bed to fish for my tuning fork and my stethoscope but the sudden movement made me dizzy. I tried to get my thoughts moving in a cold stream so I could tell them everything when they got home. Logic was moving in a wave of blue glass balls. The bed was wet, my hair was damp, but my body was still hot. It meant I didn’t sweat the fever out. It might mean a warm tea enema later on, that slick tube up my bottom. The atmosphere was falling apart. Amoeba shapes started rushing. Where was my raygun?

Someone was in my bedroom. It wasn’t Mommy cause they were still at the hospital. It was something female, like the Amana refrigerator lady, only with the silky red face of a fox. Her big head rocked, no flash at all beamed from her glass eyes. She was offering up a tray of gleaming objects — miniature diver’s tools, luminous disks and a black plastic whistle the shape of a cigar. There were sharp hairy jewels and headphones connected with the source of the music — the low fender whine — but I went for that whistle. My mouth was all shiny and burny. I could barely puff ’cause I was crying so hard but I tried and tried ’til I did and the shine pulled me right out of the heat into cool grey, falling back into a sea of black curtain.

Stefanie died. They came home real late. Their eyes were red from crying but not as red as my belly. Like a true child I was sinister enough to interrupt their grief by discharging symptoms — belly smeared with pin pricks, sickly sulphur ooze and the fear of littered space behind my eyes. The doctor said it was scarlet fever. I knew better. He quarantined me, and sister had to look at me thru a telescope.

Time warped. My dresses shrunk. It was 1957. Stefanie was dead, rock ‘n’ roll was rising and I had seen my first UFO. It was shaped like an eleven-year-old girl with colorless eyes.

They gave me her comic books and her iceskates but I wouldn’t touch them. They had her yellow energy spread all over them. I just laid there sliding my fingers around my whistle. It had a real comforting texture like the back of a boy’s neck. I laid there for years. The sheets developed the spinal eye they used to call my back. I laid there and listened for that future music, to lull me outta this separate limbo called childhood.

II

Mama said I was born old. I always had this absolute swagger about the future and a morbid foto-recall of the past. I could remember exactly how it felt in the womb. Snow was falling. Jimi Hendrix was singing: are you experienced? I was turning on a spit in a sea of vomit cleanser, a wall of sound intoxicating rhythm, and as close as my face, a breath, a session of hesitation, and the bells, the troops, the 21-gun salute, the push into promise and that first long animal cry of love like a fender whine.

Destiny plagued me. I never slept, I laid, and watched the night unravel like the future. Music crystallized like snowflakes; gradually the entire storm. Guitar necks sticking out of the ground like bayonets. The war between sounds. Alexander coming to conquer with a fender and a saucer. I knew it was coming and I wanted to be in on it. I knew it came and went and I wasn’t in on it.

I was at this party. All I knew was James Brown and somebody put on “Third Stone from the Sun.” Everybody was looking at me, so I pulled out my whistle, the one shaped like a cigar with black pick-ups. By the end of “Foxy Lady” it was pure amp damage. They were banging their pates into the plaster but I was laughing hysterically. The ones who ripped their wigs fascinated me the most, to watch these bald and slick comet shapes rushing the walls. It reminded me of something, but I was too giddy to get my mind shining. I wasn’t in on it, wasn’t in on it, I couldn’t stand it. I wasn’t born to be a spectator.

It was 1966 ’67 ’68. Every place I went it was somebody else. I could-not-live-today. Too plugged into sanguine rhythms past and the silver video we call future. Here I come future, coming to get ya. I see it all moving on an immense yellow highway. They come on like trumpets and violins — cars, armies of cars that move off the ground, glowing cigar shapes, and the radio just pumps like a fist. Brick roads, turnpikes, they drive me insane ’cause I can see what’s coming. ELP, ELO, nothing real ‘cept UFO. Got to be royal rock warfare cause it’s sitting in limbo. Not what was and not what will be. Rock got to move out of its stagnant moment. Pray for something bubbling under the sky’s canopy to rip open and rush like gas.

I was the same old party. I put the whistle on the tray — it went reeling. It was happening again. I was overcome but it didn’t matter. I just did what the rest of my gggg-generation did — didn’t duck heads up and get creamed by the ’60s. Everything that happened it was somebody else.

“This your wristwatch?”

“No.”

“You an artist by any chance?”

“No.”

“Freelance?”

“No.”

No-no-no-no-monotonous bells long bong. I looked at Jimi Hendrix’s hands. They were so immense they could push a face thru wax, etch and spear spinal stars in the noir crayola field we call sky. ‘Scuse me! I tripped and dropped my hand in his. It la la la landed like an insect nest and all the red wire spiders jabbed in his flesh like g-strings. It was easy to transform everything into guitar strings — hair, grass, fingers, illuminated calligraphy. Everything was something else. A sound was a room, a spongy layer of flesh, a trampoline of tissue, rubberish tissue, a laugh, a kiss . . .

I had to get out, I got to get out, I got out. Trunk up the used drapery, gonna be a new party. Children will go to the party, roll down a snowbank, eject a floodlight and the new experience will be totally ecstatic. Someone’s destiny will be his diver’s tool that makes the incision in his chest and relax his fist over the heart and pump it pump it thru the veins of space, the soul-ar radio breaking into snowflake light, hammering harmonics from the heart of a boy with colorless eyes whose neck is the texture of the back of a whistle.

Blow-blow — the diaphragm is such-a-kinky machine. I got to get out of bed. The walls are damp and the masking tape is curling. Magazine pictures of stratacasters, telecasters, jazz masters and ariel views of saucer-shaped pits slide to the floor. Coffee. Cigarettes. The moves of mama early in the morning. I water the cactus. From my sixth floor window I can see another window, a boy is smiling and to my right no clouds, no sun, no stones, no nothing, just a host of black cigar shapes whining in the pink skin sky.

——————————



Frederick

Hi hello

Wake from thy sleep

God has granted

Thy soul to keep

All of the power

And all of the gain

Is entwined

In a single

Name

Frederick

Name of care

Fast asleep

In a room somewhere

Guardian angels/up above

On the one I love.

I am calling

As the young thrush

Caught in the crest

Astonished tie death

On this night of wonder

On this night I know

I would give all

If you called

To say hello.

High! high!

Hey hey

Rejoin to me as

The light fades

My soul surrenders

In my glove

Take this message

My dove

To the one I love.

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George Carlin… now this isn’t sweet, but it does qualify as funny. Very Long, 19 minutes worth. The routine just gets better and better. His take on the 10 commandments… priceless.

Adult Material…

The Third Commandment….

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Triumph Raps, and it isn’t pretty. Adult, Adult, Adult….. but very wickedly funny

Triumph Raps!

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Have a good weekend! I will be posting off and on this weekend if you want to stop by for a visit…

Play Safe, but Play Hard!

Bright Blessings!

Gwyllm

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