In Defense of Southpaws

‘‘The views of Sontag, Chomsky, Moore, Locke and Partington are specifically political. At their core, they hate this country, and are typical of a virulent strain of anti-American leftism that infects parts of the media, academe and the corporate world.’’ Phil Melton

The first thing we do: let's kill all the intellectuals...

This is how it begins, folks.

America is a great country and will continue to be one only if it recognizes that divergent opinion is exactly what makes it so. Perhaps you do not agree, but that hardly justifies your assertion that these people are Anti-American or haters of this country. Name calling and/or demonizing is exactly what creates divisiveness. It cripples democracy and obscures the truth. Only in a free-flowing forum of ideas is it even possible for us as individuals to discern the truth for ourselves.

Mr. Melton, your hatred is misplaced and could easily be called anti-American.

Is your anger for your different-thinking brothers and sisters somehow more American, more righteous? Are these Leftist intellectuals, idealists and peaceniks such a threat? Has their hugging ever hurt any trees? Has any corporation's bottom line ever taken a serious hit?

What is it that you fear exactly?

If it's hate you must, then hate the right people (those responsible for the heinous acts of 9/11); but unless that hate is distilled and crystallized into the civilizing influence of justice and the open search for truth, our very civilization-- and certainly what we know of as America--may indeed be in jeopardy.

These are trying times indeed. Let us all check our Righteousness at the door--at least for a few moments of reflection.

Hating parts of ourselves is certainly not the way.

Meditations on Sweet Thing

Transformations hurt.
But not at this stage.
Basslines and horizons.
It's still the greatest garden.
A woman.
Spiraling.
Jumpin' hedges.
Drinkin' clear clean water.
Before perception.
Before reason.
Before time.

Stop and listen.
To the bassline.
Watch her graze.
Jumpin' hedges.
Drinkin' clear clean water.
Woman becoming
Deer.
And so much softer now.
Bassline becoming
Horizon.
And softer still.
Till there's no horizon...
No woman
No deer
And no I.

Only a pointer.
And a glimpse.

Fiddling

Why is it we hit false chords
just when the music starts to flow?
Do we really think it will protect us?
All this dissonance.
And if harmony runs deep....
And happiness just what
we've come accustomed to.
And the old music is just that, old
And the right chords recede,
further and further away.
What is it we're afraid of really--
That we don't have enough jazz, Charlie?
Or the awful truth of how sweet life can be, Bobby?
And is there really a sacred chord, Johnny P?
And an eternal well
And a horse that drinks.
And a fiddler with a bow.

Overheard at Self-Loathers Anonymous:

And the man at the podium asked:

Does life seem brutish, nasty and short?

(Swift? Hobbes? Calvin? Calvin and Hobbes? I wondered from the last pew)

And somewhere out of the ether that infernal voice, that infernal music blew.

The ceremony was on.

And Waits fell off his piano stool on late night TV.
And Letterman said something about not being in Kansas.
And Waits clicked his heels. He clicked and he clicked.
Shaffer smiled. And they cut away mercifully.

And the sound of desperation grew louder and louder.
And 12 infernal midgets with green tongues started banging.
And Waits started singing.
And we all started banging, all of us, gathering round
for the music had started.
And Waits sang.
And we all beat out the rhythm on our very own tin garbage lids.

Bang. Bang. Bang.
And Waits sang.

Well, the moon is broken
and the sky is cracked
Come on up to the house
the only things you can see
is all that you lack
all you're crying dont do no good.
Come down off the cross
We can use the wood
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a passing thru.

And there on the front row.
Bukowski turned to Kafka and asked him if he had a roach.
Kafka said Fuck you. Bukowski said Fuck me.
The cockroach smiled. For he was not waiting.
What are we waiting for? Bukowski asked.
I dont know why we were there. I certainly don't know why we're here.
I told you. We have to wait. Kafka replied.
Well, at least i felt.
I felt, Kafka muttered.
Guilty, Bukowski snorted.
At least I wasn't false, Kafka retorted.

And still we banged on.
And Waits sang.

You got to Come on Up to the House.
And we banged.
Come on Up to the House.
And we banged and we banged.

Does life seem nasty, brutish and short?
The seas are stormy and you can't find no port.
There's nothing in the world that you can do.
And you've been whipped by the forces that are inside of you.
And you're high on top of your mountain of woe.
And you know you should surrender
but you can't let it go.
You gotta come on up to the house.

And then all the banging stopped.

And for a moment, i think i rose.

Bukowski said At least the music's good.
Kafka sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something about that infernal American music.
The cockroach smiled.

And I wondered about my own coffin.
And whether or not i might sleep tonight.

a germ, a seed:

With apologies to Dostoevsky. A lovable idiot. Pivotal points in American history.
A box of chocolates. Running? A floating feather.
Nah, it'll never fly....

River of Time

Lover of soul
Lover of mine
Lover of soul
Lover of mine
Heart and soul
Body and mind
Meet me on the river of time

Van Morrison

Virtual Girl

You see I'm in love with a Virtual Girl
sometimes she comes as the wind
sometimes as a fine violin
cracked, but always in tune
sometimes she comes as Marilyn
and is every phase of the moon
she drinks tea and oranges
I call her Alice, I call her Suzanne
sometimes she speaks of Graceland
and how i forgot to kneel
when she was here and we were now
and we didnt have to wonder what was real
Sometimes i'm not sure if we ever touched
or that we'd ever been broken at all
but i miss her when she's not in her little box
and when she doesnt show at all
'I'm just Shaunna' she says
and I but a Virtual Guy
and this great sadness
and that which led behind the veil--
weren't they just dark eyes?
And she says we cant come back as animals
and i say how could you have forgotten how you once were my pet
and she laughs that half giggle and i'm caught one more time in this net
For I'm in love with a Virtual Girl
and I'm but a virtual guy--
and this world is....

September and Beyond

Proud golden erections
we thought would last forever
have turned to dust
only to fester in the lungs
of things to come
like some civilizations will.

Are the holes really wider now
or can they no longer be concealed?
I thought I danced once.
But now I do not know.

What will fill us
as the big ball drops?
I need you to meet me.
I need you to remember where.

Moon River

Like the moon pulls on the tide, you took hold.
But i was only sleeping. Dreaming.
The dreams of dead seaweed, mere flotsam,
endlessly drifting towards aimless shores.
For the moon is but an illusion.
And the tide a pale servant.
And it's only this motion, this incessant motion, that refuses to ever cease.

"A Thousand Kisses Deep"

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done –
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it’s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck.
I blessed our remnant fleet –
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
I guess they won’t exchange the gifts
That you were meant to keep.
And quiet is the thought of you,
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat . . .

Laughing Lenny (Leonard Cohen)