honoring time by passing it by

This is an interesting “homage” to a gun-smuggling member of Congress. It’s compelling in and of itself, but the story has been sanitized of any unsavory details of the undoubtedly sordid reality.

I Want to Believe? This bunk left me speechless.Complete with pedophile priest,the tortuous tale knows no restraint as it devolves into cartoonish ridicularity. I Couldn’t Believe is what I’d call it.

Three stars for Chicago backdrop. Otherwise, this shallow yarn has all the elements necessary for the rote mediocrity to which we have grown so accustomed.

Oh! you’ll hate this one.Drug-induced hallucinations inspired tortured representations of the landscape. Nudies and Bluies romp about to find a path to strife and violence. You’d rather see Maude’s bush

Pure tripe with small hero constantly fighting bigger and bigger “monstas” using more powerful weapons and “splosions.” Standard drek in the anime genre. Uninspired and substandard animation. Skip it.

Interesting multi-perspective brings to life the chaos and lawlessness in what is modern Iraq. Shocking and pathetic, it makes you question just about everything about this occupation.

Standard goo-guy/ ba-guy HK film with requisite brooding cop with dead girlfriend anger screaming for revenge. Some shooting and ass kicking, but nothing you haven’t seen except one guy is invincible.

This movie is rather tripe. Its promise of senseless violence went largely unfulfilled and I so hate being duped. It was as if a bunch of mongoloids decided to become vigilantes. That’s this that is.

A madcap and mildly predictable brit-romp, (avec midget), but overall enjoyable. In fact it was so good I don’t ever want to see it again, but rather remember this midget flick fondly.

Like most Freedom films, this one is a slice of life piece with grand drama manufactured from something mundane, in this instance, the death of a rummy. Wanted to give it 3.5 but rounded up for style.

Excellent human docu-drama. Draws you in to its alien world where the blatant bias and unfairness will leave you surprisingly indignant. This is an excellent piece of work about a Piece of Work!

Another dissolute music man who couldn’t deal with his talents or vices. Much too dissolute. This guy drank himself to death. At least he didn’t make himself a fat spastic.

Excellent and interesting overlay of the involvement of Western powers in the Middle East since WWI, culminating in the “Peace to End All Peace.” Recommended viewing for today’s citizen.

Dull back-lot production riddled with inconsistencies so obvious that a zombie could have picked them out. 30 days? BS! These clowns wouldn’t have lasted 10 hours if this thing were properly written.

Interesting take on the “zombie” movie, i.e. an excuse to shoot people without guilt. I liked the filmcraft and movie- within-a-movie format the director utilized. Otherwise, uninspired writing.

Rote blarney about a “Nazi super-guy” who is infused into a ship somehow. This couldn’t have more macho- and testosterone-laden stereotypes if it had been penned by SpikeTV or the Pentagon. Truly awful.

Everyone loved this movie. I did not. I thought it was dark, dull and pointless. It just didn’t interest me at all. Hungarian cinema can shag off if this is what they have to offer. Disappointing

Looks at life on the “terrorist” side of the “official” debate. For the most part these are ordinary people who say they are resisting the occupation of their homeland. Agree or not, it’s worth a watch.

This cat is interesting and has some intriguing things to say. He’s actually a pretty energetic speaker, which is good because his presentation is about 6 hrs. I don’t expect anyone will watch this.

Juxtaposing the Book of Revelations with Mayan prophecy and a bit of sci-fi scare thrown in, this jumbled mess seeks to evoke some apocalyptic spirituality, but the only real tragedy is this film.

Amusing look at the US govt propaganda and lies in the name of eradicating the “most dangerous drug in America.” These dishonest shills are ridiculous and illogical, but funny nonetheless.

Initially promising creative intrigue, this quickly lost that promise to become more of the light-hearted unexceptionality that is far too common on the Sci-fi channel, see e.g. Stargate.

This movie is so skewed, hokey, and preposterous, yet strangely amusing. Perhaps it’s the legions of B-list actors they got to play the increasingly ridiculous roles. Not a loss if you miss it.

Rocco in a legit movie. Can’t believe it. This film is explicit, clinical and morbid. Not fo the faint of heart. In fact many of you would hate this. Not recommended for those more delicate friends.

This [movie] is complete tripe. Forget about this nonsense and drink some hot-dog water instead. You’ll certainly feel better than if you watched this hokum.

(2006 horror film)

This is yet another remake of the Invasion of the Bodysnatchers and it is suitably trite and hackneyed. A not unpleasant waste of time.

Excellent expose of how Cheney and his cadre of servile believers engineered the invasion of Iraq and reshaped our government to implement their ideology.

Interesting French, sorry, Freedom film shot in Paris about a little man’s struggle to crawl out from under his rock and change his life. He’s helped along by a statuesque blond who is what she seems.

Angels Don’t Sleep Here

This movie was pathetically weak. Complete waste of time. Best part, Roy Scheider getting blown away. I think Jaws shot him. Don’t waste your time with this offal.

7 things to avoid to maintain health against chronic health syndromes:

1 Caffeine
2 Nicotine
3 Sugar
4 Alcohol
5 Stress
6 Pharmaceuticals
7 Red Meat

Waiting for creative feelings
 to emerge by themselves,
  spontaneously. How myopic
   is school, correctness,
    officiousness, administrative
     assiduous work that
      serves to dim the lights
       of revelation until we
        become wage slaves of
         ignominy.

The people who are making the world a better place are doing it, not talking about it.
Politicians make a living talking about making the world a better place instead of doing it.
They are projections of our idealized values.
Their true character is at odds with their accomplishments.
They pay lip service to our egos.

i’m always finding a thread of long, curvy brown teetering on black, and i tease it from my garments or undergarments, or even my skin. it is yours. it smells fragrant when i touch it to my nostrils.

The important thing is to
write, with every tick of the clock
you quell the free-flowing lyrics with the
crushing weight of analysis; how far are
you                alienated from the
feelings           inside yourself?
Are                you scouring the
meat               markets of the
world              for a new best
friend,            or counting the
hours until your beloved takes your
calls? Are we robots to one another,
or is your greatest gift to me your
callousness, that reminder to spend myself
solitary, to give my hands the pre-
eminent place in the center of my
field of vision. Women with sharper
vision than mine have sung the
praises of my words, and they don't
lie, have no agenda but the desire
for the world to see brightness,
my confidence only a side effect, I
fear not my silence, but my howl.

Of a portrait of a young girl, a woman
in her early 20’s, desperate, despondent,
tired of life, disappointed by abusive men
and her saddled life with a baby.
Large part of her disappointment with
adult life is due to her failures in it,
that were partly due to her lack of
preparation for it. She was left emotionally
immature by the infantilizing controlling
behavior of her mother, who would beat
her, mock her, yet profess to love her.
Now she is in another country,
hiding out, doing drugs, unhappy.
They miss each other, though anger
is in the way. Stress caused mother
to mistreat child.

Of an Islamic convention; The speeches
were laughably boring + pretentious,
in one ear, out the other. The
fun was to be had in the gallery,
watching others, flirting and sitting with
them. The convention went on and on, speeches
lasting until the brink of dawn, and
me doing prayers, the motions at least,
in my own way, with shoes on.
And me babysitting 2 girls, between
5 and 10, and having fun.

Perhaps insinuation is a red-letter day-glo yard fabric sale
for workaday maladies packaged like parched paper tigers
and cough repressant haploid diglycerides subsuming idle
conversation + heartbeating tapestries of forlorn skin that’s
lost its fit on sunken eyelids + hamstrung jowls, under-
watered people + vegetation + the right to bear arms +
self-mutilate + to choke a lover, these leftist insurgencies
leave me pasted to the cabinets of winged migration,
why did you hotwire the bootstraps to my memories and
stick me with an itinerant firecracker, I rise with the
thick smoke and all the herb in the world is telling me
to relax and love my brothers + teach my father +
listen to my sons. This was a sunset in the dawning,
a grease-fire in the awnings over a shuttered memory,
bowling lanes full of knobby-kneed endives, cottage-
makers on the edge of extinction. Tall grey stones
with the ombisure of elephants rise red through rose
gardens + the sparrows in their hidden sanctuaries wait
patiently for the call to prayers, needling + wheedling,
threshing wheat + rice against cinammon trees, silk
catches languorous eyes + these lost slaves want me
to forget what they have never known, a history so
vivid, all they had to do was bow their heads to the gods of color + meaning + their screams, turning to tears, would turn to light.

what a presumption to call yourself the center of poetry, housed as you are in the art institute, that racket bent on selling postcards and day planners.
when i own the material and inspiration for creating a world of words outside your marble doorways.
fuck the poetry center. poetry is within me, unaligned and unaffiliated, i bow only to myself.

As Sally turned to walk out that flaccid doorway, she turned with all the heft of her gathering moss and declared, “Dammit, Johann. I tried to learn from you. I tried to show you that a student is a teacher’s greatest gift, the only manifestation of a questionable talent. But you treated me like a flower-vase, an ashtray to collect an unceasing downpour of cigarette butts and errant saliva. But those days are gone. I wiped myself clean for you each day anew. I wanted to be your palimpsest, and you made me your doormat.”

Oh God
the lusts call me

I want another
someone fresh and dirty
like the girls on TV

skin glossy
like the pages of a magazine

Glittery
like gradeschoolers lips

She wants to be wet
I want to make her that

Save me!
Their wants are my shaitan

My love is at home
where it’s always been

since 20 you gave me a dream
Sometimes I take her by force
Sometimes she takes me

Allah, let your name be inscribed on these acts.

In the land with no name, but lots of money, everything was planned. People’s lives were planned. Civilization was at its “highpoint.” In this land with a name of nothing, things were much too serious, much like clockwork. Well that’s what Newsome thought. He was now 15, and he was as confused as hell. But that was no surprise to him. “Adolescence screws you up,” that’s what all those old guys taught Newsome. As Newsome got stranger and stranger, he created pictures with his mind and put them on paper; they weren’t like photos, which was bad. His elders were very unhappy. They asked, “What is this hallucinatory scribble?”

So his elders diagnosed him as a “troubled child” and said he had been abused as a child. Newsome thought this absurd, since he knew that no abuse had been done to him through all his life. Newsome was sent to a museum to get a new “perspective on life.” They wanted to show him how almost UNREAL their society had been. And how far they had come. In it, he saw what genetics could do to animals.

He saw how hard-working men gave birth to the new generation, which had presently deteriorated and offsprung him.

“How men had ventured into forests and tamed wild beasts,” they said, “and bended them to their will.”

It was two years later, and Newsome had finally finished his assignment by the elders. He had stopped making pictures from his head and had stopped questioning why.

But there will always be others.

So much gold, she’ll cream!

This chump is lame and
doesn’t even know it. Nobody likes him
and he is socially retarded. He didn’t
get enough love at home and hates
himself. Poor guy. Life from his angle must
suck. People like to harm him because he has harmed them.

Reading Canterbury Tales and watching Fear and Loathing. Same shit, different century.

Modus operandi: Love out loud!

If you like keeping busy and being a busybody, then a career in busyness may be right for you!

An incestuous dream, me with mother. I have been with myself many times, auto-fellatio, and anal sex with my boys. What does it mean? I am repressed, and want more than marriage offers. Oh well, dreams…

Dreamt I was in a convention hall, and waiting for A. to finish a presentation. Then it was her turn to wait, but instead, she went off to go out with some friends. I was devastated and disappointed. And a solo older woman saw my look of sadness and we instantly knew we were there for each other. I guess all these zombies walking around sex-crazed, looking for infernal hook-ups, are dreaming the same things. Anyways, this woman and I needed privacy, which is always my prerequisite. Although, in Kafkaesque fashion, as we were looking for it, the less and less of it we found. We were in an arcade, an underground garage, a movie theater bar, all the while surrounded by a roving circus of strangers. And I eventually became so distracted by the lights and the mildly entertaining banter and concerns of those around me, that I lost my companion. Or did I forget about love and replace those yearnings with the phantasms of electricity, which illuminated the pretty features and obscured the grotesque hearts of the denizens of Chicago?

I am dreaming of my wife’s cousins, best friends, sister, mother… everyone but her. And I am always flirting and getting ambivalent reactions. Sometimes we seal the deal, but they are always left aghast. It just isn’t right with anyone but my mate. That rare dream which is usually found only in the arms of waking reality.

The three components of self

Our gestalt is divided into three orthogonal planes that appear to be elementary. They are mind, heart, and soul. These absolutes are actualized in our experience of the world and interaction with it, namely through our material being, approximated to body.  Not only are these the elements of personality and hence, identity, but the world outside of ourselves mirrors this composition. We perceive the world to be composed of these three aspects as well; though the forms of impression and expression are diverse, they correspond to manifestations of these three.

Structure of self corresponds to structure of reality [Read more →]

Watched half of this and was very pleasantly surprised. Here is a guy who is not afraid to allude to his career as a misadventurous path toward enlightenment and self-destruction, all the while cheekily pointing out all that’s wrong with modern American society. You may find his material obvious or bluntly delivered, but I find his insights original, valuable, and sincere. His prescriptions are probably not as robust as his proscriptions, but that often goes with advice from entertainers.

I think that sitting in a
cafe allows me to write with concentration,
preferably there is a lot of space and
no music. If my goal is lucid
reflection and authentic self-expression. I think
the scenesters who go to a cafe but
are subconsciously reacting to the
scene stimulus and the social cues are
really just another form of lemmings.
Which brings me to the point of
laptop nursing. These people and their
laptops. Taking care of baby. Making
sure baby’s fed - that’s all it is.
I’m sure most people on their laptops
are doing some form of technical babysitting
or surfing (cultural grazing or
entertainment). The ones who I am
curious about are the ones who are
doing something “creative.” Why they
chose a laptop to do their writing?
It’s not like it is a pure form of
expression to me - although I wrote
editorials on a computer, I never have
written poems directly on a computer -
there is far too much of a mechanical
feeling, a feeling of disconnect from
my words, the abstraction of typing keys
vs. forming letters, the distraction of
all the other things a computer can
do, and all the things a computer
needs. Those people are not even aware of
their own potential.

you have been working all week and trying to get home and workout and watch some crap and sync your ipod so you can go to sleep and do it again tomorrow. you are looking for something different today, but you are going to drink that swill and talk to some cookie cutter guy who tells you nothing [Read more →]

I’m singing to the man, woman, and child within you.
I’m searching for the smile that’s buried inside, without you.

And though the time keeps ticking by,
another lovelorn lullaby,
and though the time keeps ticking by,
oh a long fey memory…

stop leaving me behind
do anything you want to me
like a chicken in the sky
you run away across the sea

now it’s time to say goodbye
come december you’re in front of me
hear me whistle hear me cry
let me tell you how its going to be

and all the love that we made is off the reel
all the words that we made divine
every corner of every broken wheel

Will you ever know?
Will you ever know?
Will you ever know?

“Southern Gloss”

I have been around the world,
lookin’ for that one-armed girl.
Who knows where that bitch even is?
But I know she lives…

“You give love a bad frame”

Shot through the arm!
It’s crack cocaine!
Doin’ drugs to hide pain!

OR

Shot through the arm
in my blue vein!
Givin’ blood’s
a royal pain.

“Ledgehanger”

I wanna be
a ledgehanger!
Don’t let me fall in vain!
Ah, I’m your
ledgehanger!
Let there be no doubt about it.

Abalone turnstiles, muskrat manifesto
pendulous pajamas, perforated pudenda.
Docile deliverance, voluptuous vomitorium,
pubescent penchant, underhanded euphonium.
Tertiary tastelessness, unbridled ubiquity,
constant acquisition, rapacious reproductiveness.
Elastic egoism, concentrated cold-bloodedness,
tumescent technologism, lovesick laboriousness.
Jaunting juxtaposition, gradual gesticulation,
Fecund dilation, bombastic belligerence.
Etruscan erudition, bountiful acquiescence,
contrite cavaliers, conditioned cacophony.
Mellifluous malady, placebo politics,
holocaust homeland, marshmallow military.
D i v i n e  B i r t h r i g h t
masquerading in mascara, speaking in
silence, laughing in looms of livestock +
tasteless teabags, plastic picture frames,
and blood that sticks to the bone.

Midnight and I’m looking for a
free lunch fatter than a cheap thrill,
what’s waiting for me knows no
bounds + tells no white lies.
Fast cars + fast women are the
only vehicles that make decisions,
the surgeon made a bunch of cuts
but left only one incision.
Nobody chooses to ripen like cheese,
everybody sours like vinegar,
but don’t take my word for it,
I’ll trade you my bird for it.
Wherever there’s freedom, an artist
can make a stately home,
Wherever there’s sadness, a poet
is bound to weep and roam.
The sun blinds those who live
in the shadows + darkness,
But the shade is cool and easy,
the universe presses its lips to destiny.

Crayola heartbeats steal meats from
slovenly dinosaurs while wholesale musty
regattas earn purchase on cartwheeling stilettos
of mutton-chop fortitude. Insolvent holly-
lipped gangrened interns sip holocaust
marmalade scones rapaciously through
rubber-necked safety straws while their myo-
cardial intellect reaches subterranean
armistice on a rubber-stamped committee’s
bedpan. The homeless pisspot au-gratin
makes heat from yesterday’s paychecks while
their tongueless cousins stir bottomless
cups of tetrahedron sausage by electric
wafflelight. Ladies have become men +
cashews swallow peanuts by the half-shell,
carping for carpal-tunnel somnambulation, a
half-toed defenestration, magnanimous imagination,
voodoo-nation, masked veneer of relative
condemnation, ride the silver-tipped electric
coach into the rolling hassocks of tomorrow.

He comes in like crumpled leather, blaming every angle under the sun. Soon he is sipping the finest oil under the sun, solving the world’s problems, burning a candle through his eyes. His fingers create as many problems as they solve, he has hacked everything together, much the same as me. But architecture eludes us, our discipline making way for oozing mounds of enthusiasm that coat walls like ivy, beautifying moral function from urban blight. He is a trabulous, appreciator of visuals, constantly commenting, like a host he welcomes, enjoying being in his own company now, he doesn’t like mincing words and promises.

A man’s most honest the second after he comes.

Suicide takes commitment.

To stick to a plan,
an idea,
a consequence.

And the best time to kill yourself
is when you’re an old shrew.

But no one wants to wait that long.
What would be the point?
Where’s the nobility in that?

If you can find any logic in what I’m doing,
then you’ve misunderstood me.