It Grinds Sickly, Churning The Belly

Utah, 2006, the Origin of Life bill is struck down by a heavily conservative House of Representives whose majority is dominated by members of the Jesus Christ Church of Latter Day Saints.

The words now used to describe such bills are "anti-evolution", as though this were some kind of alternate culture, a sub-stratum of our species or an ideology which had spawned a race which now holds itself seperate from the rest of us and and is feeling put upon. Oh, it's shouldn't be said that this is entirely wrong...no, I love the seperations of Church and State. The bill however would have required teachers to read a disclaimer of what is taught in schools as 'science', more or less stating that "We believe this is how it is, we can support it with various forms of evidence, but there's other evidence out there from other groups with similar but varying opinions." Damnably fine idea to be required to say "We might not know.", most especially to as deeply ingrained an institution as the American scientific community.

Sitting at the burnt, crusty, center of a glass crater two old men in puddles of steamy piss point gnarled digits at one another, their jaws working like arthuritic cattle chewing their slimey cuds, nothing emerging from their mouth's but occaisional grunts where once they'd have had strong and voicifurous opinions to spew like chimpanzees throwing worm ridden shit in hopes of making a irrefutable point just for the momentary satisfaction of having said something meaningful.

This is where we stick ourselves on thick, splintered pikes in front of the White House and make wretching noises all lonely night long, our puddled gore staining the sidewalk as we protest grandly until our bladders give out and our bloodshot, glazed eyes roll up in their sockets for the final time. We're sticky, squealing martyrs to the causes of a humanist Apocolypse and in our grimey cities, our drug infected, infested schools, we nudge one another pensively back into place in the comical line of heartbeats and productivity. This is the planned obsolescence of freedom.

Brokeback Mankind

We were the voice of the nineties, of the frustration of the post-modernists. The sad eyed codgers sitting at the bleak and empty end of a Brooklyn streetcorner. They were the beatnick's savage children. The sickness of the sixties is coming round again.

Remember the moon? The moment of magic when first stepped man onto the dirty pock marked surface of another world.

The players were well known; standing at the crossroads of fame, looking one way and seeing their demise after a brief, explosive nova of drug powered fusion, of mind and body broken down until only the substance of heart and lastly, the pains of memory remain. Down that other path, they see in both directions, back and forward, the caricatures of others who shared their shattered fate.

To die, to be remembered, to become at last a footnote in a history book covered in dust, buried in a earthshocked temple on the edge of a skeletal skyline. Worst of all they could build a church in your name long after the story is over, the ground cooling, your headstone coated in beggar piss and with that testament, they'd never let you rest.

Child, where are you standing now? Is that you watching my bones ache? I need someone to shove a vibrator between the hemispheres of my brain, split them left and right, then suck up whatever drips out of my eyesockets and serve it in fine restraunts. The Hell's Angels gathered thirty years worth of pot bellies and scag until at last their tiny culture, their brief burst, their invasions and deviance was accomplished. Their saga was over and the childlike refugees of Tim Leary's expanded mind were left to recover.

My breasts are full of bitter milk and now, I read for you the last days; thumbing back through Revelations to find the prophesy when at last the heavenly connection is made. God steps through the gates of New York, claps his hands for attention and is ignored.

By The Pricking Of My Thumbs

Something wicked this way comes. Shakespeare's Macbeth, his poor damned king as prophesied by the three witches to end the line of Macbeth and so did he, despite the bloodshed he committed himself to and perpetuated in the hope that fate might be averted.

Mr.Bush has now the multi-fold task of putting down an insurgency whose appearance is becoming familiar, if not cliched, of defeating a multi-hundred billion dollar deficit, and under the weight of lawsuits and allegations of corruption, abuse of power, and illegal activities whose events can only be compared with the Hoover years. We live in times not unlike those which created the sixties. It is a time of moral revisionism.

The Presidents very grandios plan for reducing the deficit by 2008 when he is destined to leave office. His party is in dire poltical straits and this latest set of budget cuts will reduce government funding for education, Medicare, Medicaid and Social Security by nearly $37 billion dollars. In case you don't have a grasp of the amount of money that is, you could feed your family, assuming a $100 a week food budget, for 7,115,384 years. As you can imagine, only a Congress as unbalanced as ours currently is would even contemplate the passage of such a budget, most especially considering it doesn't take into account any price for the reconstruction of New Orleans beyond 2008 and no budget for the war in Iraq after same. Is he planning to cut his losses and run at the end of term? Possibly. What need has he of another political office? It's not as though he'll ever touch the high of being leader of the free world again. He is rich beyond words, unpopular, and only need survive two more years without federal indictment and he can be free. Is our President, this powerful man, truly so much the escapist when true perile rears it's head?