pumping up the hate

Things that happen in the Gaza and Indonesia can starve the brain developement of infants.
pumping up the hate
It's a tendency of the human race that's all too frequent.
pumping up the hate
It's like a never tamed sucking instinct, and it'll cost you.
Each week on your agenda you include at least one person to screw.
It distorts your good looks til you resemble something Goya drew.
pumping up the hate.

That Time in Tel Aviv

Without any real power,
the kind that holds you up like a tree you used to like to sit under,
and without the unseen electricity , you won't hear that sweet sound of the engine kicking in.
And you get all hot and start nodding and need to be watered
and then for a while things will sour
because you've been suckered.


Choose your poison and keep an eye on the fuel of your person.
Choose and don't renege
on the integrity ,
That is to say, the way you talk to your self and how self takes a crack at you.
The synchronization between them , tucked up the instincts sleeve.
And learn to land without breaking the eggs.
And don't forget that time in Tel Aviv.

Or your copy of Raison d' Etre for Dummies,
Dog-eared and highlighted and packed with the brownies.

Something He Only Did Occasionally

There's grandpa with the kids on his knee.
For once he's not playing the boss,
There smiling, something he only did occasionally.

The photograph mirroring his emotion through the family tree,
But hanging unseen outside the frame was his albatross.
There's grandpa with the kids on his knee.

If it weren't for Hitler and his version of Manifest Destiny,
The paths of he and my mother weren't likely to cross.
There smiling, something he only did occasionally.

The kids on his knee sitting free.
They too are part of the paradox.
There's grandpa with the kids on his knee.

Photo albums are riddles to some degree.
If I look long enough, I see through the gloss,
There smiling, something he only did occasionally.

Something happened that kept him from the glee,
So he spent his life examining his loss.
There's grandpa with the kids on his knee,
There smiling, something he only did occasionally.

They Find God to Be a Real Bitch

The devil worshipers are getting their costumes together for Mardi Gras.
They have their rules and they constantly remind each other of them,
on cell phones and email and instant messaging.


This year's theme is the worshiping of the Caesar-in-Chief
and an attempt to bring daylight to between the ears of this deity.
It's a safe way to let the masochism part of of your being say: I love sado as much as I love juicy money.
Safe way to laugh off thoughts of equality and reach for an equivalent of a drink any where near the smell of squalor --- one of the rules you're constantly being reminded of.
The get-ups are ridiculous enough to last a long weekend,
or even a month in the Yucatan at a resort that's part of your penny pinching.

Religion plays a part but it's pretty well post-modern,
and like computer operating systems, constantly updated and upgraded.
And very hackable.
They find God to be a real bitch , thus the reason for prostrating to the intellectually feeble reasoning of the experts
who assist those who were born to conquer.

Apples in the Orchard

Every evening , no matter the time zone,
My mind shifts to the unknown.

The question often arises : Why was I and all the others born ?
I see where evolution is taking us: people growing horns.

The more elegant the fashions ,
More obvious the protrusions.

Apes with ideas
planning how to get the most bananas.

The brainy and articulate
accompanied by the brawny carrying big sticks.

A combination that will get you a holocaust or an inquisition,
with all the latest gadgets, and a fine tuned vision.

Cleaner and meaner hate,
Spread like a virus by servants of the State.
Mentally preparing for the slaughters
that won't disturb the consumers.

See it some time at an art gallery.

There's a live one and some dead ones.
There women praying,
or perhaps just trying to hold down their terror.
Anyway they got their heads down.

There's artillery in the distance,
But it's become as common birds chirping.

I'd say the guy with his hands up
will be shot within 30 to 60 seconds.

Either that or tortured.
It's that hate virus
growing like apples in the orchard.

Fireworks Fly

I've been alternatively wistful and and party wild,
but for the moment my emotions are on hold,
so I got to pull up the thoughts of you I've compiled
with regard to those moments that peaked.
It gives me a quiet buzz
thinking about the day that was,
about the time that twas
I saw your silhouette move towards me .

Coffee in the morning is getting mundane.
Bourbon straight up at night just numbs temporarily.
Why is it I get giddy
and the fireworks go off
every time you come to town and say howdy?

Some people take substances to help them stay sane,
but there's always the chance you could freak.
So I just wait for the blues to bugger off
when you come around and set the fireworks off.

I get uncorked whenever I dream of you.
That's why I'm sending this report to you.
I don't know if you know what you do.

I don't get fired up by Cuban vacations,
Hot spots burn me up
and I eventually get bored by the view.

But the fireworks fly
When I think of you.

Wars on Paper

Some people still care about the possibility of nuclear war,
like they did in the '50's, when the school kids practiced taking cover under their seats.
Other people believe that the pursuit of power has no limits on the manipulation of science, morality or linguistics.
Around the bend and beyond the pale
they don't get freaked out by the agenda's exterior ennui,
like Buddhist monks they feel the unseen and say it exists for its own sake.
Monks go in and mind their own business-- like lying on a beach for the day.
these guys are natural born pick pockets and of the cloth for violent thought,
bringing nirvana's resources to the surface to puff them up, primed to make war to make a point.

They believe their toughness will make the other guy eat his anger and get choked up with cancer.
They have a my-violence-is-better-than-your-violence mentality
and believe that any blowback will not affect them personally because they keep their asses tight with security apparatuses to protect their vain glory and pathetic luxuries---what shock and shut-up in Iraq was all about.
And all that was got was blood, mud and the dust of the dead.
And that was no where near the Big One ,
The big hate maker keeping the heartless appear as if they have something pounding in their chests;
pumping faith in the big numbers of wars on paper.

the dead may come

The dead may come out of their statues like they come out of these projected 8mm movie pictures on the wall.
They'd dwell with us if they could put their old molecules back together like they were at the beach that day when the past was the present.
Whether it's a good thing or it's woe that makes you want to walk out into the waves,
that depends on which side of the bunker you wake up on in the morning after the foggy revelations of the night before.
Whether seventh seals nail you to the nearest two-by-four or whether the rhythm in your feet feels the street's treats
is covered in a chaos theory introduction on Wikipedia.

They move around invisible with the toes of one foot testing the tempature of eternity , the other foot dragging around the mall gathering up supplies to make it through the winter.
They say dying is easy when you hear the kaboom somewhere inside of you.
An auditory bloom
like what you might see and hear and feel if you took a hit from Muhammad Ali in his heyday.

The dead may come and I will welcome them.
They may have search results from the Google servers on the other side,
or they may be zombies like people who have worked too long in an office with bad air performing repetitious acts that hold bureaucracies together like a communal sin.

Fear and Loathing in Nova Scotia

I was riding through a snow storm
when I spotted the Xmas lights,
So I pulled into the driveway and shouted out a cheer.
When I got inside and started feeling a little warm,
a guy they said was a high school principal
stuck a prayer book in my hand.
He said he didn't like the fact that I didn't fit his norm,
From something I'd said he got the idea I was some kind of atheist,
and kept yelling about sin and such like he was suffering from a malfunctioning gland.
Well I've had some funky Christmases but this was the absurdest,
So i tried singing an uplifting Christmas carol.
But he didn't like my spirit,
So I put on my boots while he pointed me in the direction of the coming eternal peril.

Well I have to admit that he scared me,
And was just thankful I wasn't at a convention of principals in Las Vegas, Nevada.

Cold Sweat

The days of dynamite and gloom are upon us,
pulling out all the dumbness like drunken punches in barroom brawl.
That would be the practitioners of the ancient art of keeping the mind in the gutter and holding the nose high until they try to shower it off.
They made their first appearance in the nightmares of the prophets of the preceding generation.

Weeds of knowledge growing like ginkgo trees on properties the developers would like to rezone.
They love the sound of the backhoes they own.
But they gotta keep the dozers temporarily on hold until the authorities can be sweet talked and if necessary greased, or else hogtied.
An area that looks nothing like paradise , and as they see it, could use a complex of condos with adjacent bank and pizza joint, and enough other conveniences, despite the low dollar, to make it a done deal,
ready to be promoted by an aggressive sales staff.

The days of gloom-sayers and self servers first into the safety net.
You can see it on the news and feel it in your wallet.
Makes you want to go to a GI to get checked out for polyps.
It'd be a distraction from the geopolitical cold sweat.

Unclear But Absorbent

The eternal verities have changed their vestments for the weekend
but still there's no let up on the acceleration coming from under the hood.
The power sources can always find a technology with which to transcend,
With which to get out the message that it's safer to have a head of wood.

As far as the stars are concerned,
makes no difference if empires come crumbling down.
Everyone knows everyone must be burned
and prepared for the black hole phase-down.

The same thing that's inside a mountain is inside a person.
Nature unplugged.
For everything that worsens
there's a parallel universe where everyone, kicking and screaming , gets dragged,
Where cooked concepts get dislodged.

What follows is sometimes clear headed moments,
Fear falling into something unclear but absorbent.

Newton's Third Law

Out of the womb and introduced to the bombs and saturated by the minds that want to drop them.
History movin' on like a blues song , moving through the pass-me-downs of birth and death.
History that gets confused with Satan's website marketing the benefits of Hell.
In the sanitary zones Reason stands still.
Our society dependent on the pharmaceuticals and their side effects to keep us stupid and blinded while our favorite idolatries get shilled.

The senses addicted to convulsions on roller coaster rides,
stumble through engineering marvels that expect you to navel gaze if you happen to figure it out.
Down on your knees or up against the wall you schmuck.
Just click next to take you to the Holy Grail page
Have credit card ready
Concentrate on what you know about Newton's Third Law
Forget what you saw.

Thailand Fluorescence Revisited

Thailand Fluorescence Revisited

the eyes are looking in and out simultaneously
beauty meets poverty.
Light penetrating flesh
arms in neutral
lips in drive
caution akimbo,
the shadows failing to cover her humanness.


the lights make her look cold in a hot land,
where power is brutal,
pleasures frugal.
She sees a ghost she cannot quite hold:
as her senses drink it in,
as her lips accentuate and position themselves for a kiss that resists the poison of fate,
as she hungers for patterns of paradise to permeate the street.

her eyes mirrors in need of mercy
reflecting whoever's soul happens to look in,
following a momentary trajectory of beauty.
The light making it easy to see
that the shadows fail to cover her humanness.

very managerial

Suffering under the bombs of the pilots,
putting the terror in the War to Make Horror,
putting the drama into the swollen vignettes.
The pilots accessing their hits with Internet Explorer.

In the rubble the the numb ones stumble,
like a morning you can't find your keys
reaching the exponential
where what's left is best described by Noam Chomsky.

Raised on ego enhancing flim flam,
the bombers maintain their gruesome innocence.
Clocked into a clinical environment,
Clued in to the necessity of silencing lambs,
it's bombs away until the scanners detect the look of acquiescence.

The war strategy historians are excited by the new material,
They make recommendations , they're very managerial.

managers in strange lands

The loan sharks require a lot of schooling to prepare them for life as managers of an economy
It takes discipline
to give them the required taste to run the blood and guts republics
that respond to the needs of those who have learned the splendors of the trough while holding in their hoggery.

From an early age considered stigmata of the gods of Ayn Rand
The dark and down side cushioned by amenities that fill up the holes in perceptions,
rattling the calculating bones in the cranium.
Well aware that their services are highly valued, especially the obedience that renders obeisance.
Grateful for the rewards system that sure beats the calluses that come when you resist the buzz of the benefits enchantress.

take a trip through the looking glass
feel the bounce of technology jumping like a grass hopper in your hands
Go right to your stash
get the hell away from managers in strange lands.

a pinhole in the roof

Temples of the God distorted by the glare.
Waiting at a rainy day whistle stop for the moon to beam through.
A moment in an art gallery contorted with reality.

The possibilities giving me the willies as well as something to thrill me.
Funny compassion never became a fashion when negotiating treaties.
Must be fear of going hungry hunkered down and armed like an engangered species in the Amazon,
In the genes.
Whether evolving or running into a problem that can't be solved is yet to be seen.
It's causing the generalized anxiety that had a hold on Edgar Alan Poe.
It put that glint of power in the eye of the first guy to try explosives.
Keeping it all clinical in order to keep the formula straight, and so branded civilized.

And then a feeling of coming out of isolation,
sending the tip of the yin under the nadir of the yang,
from sun worship to soul worship,
to a kind of polar integration that vibrates life.
Making contact with a vagueness that vibrates ebullience.
Trying to articulate both fate and non-fate uncrated in a room full of precious metals with light coming in through a pinhole in the roof.

National Security Song

That's the song the sirens sing,
speeding through interchanges and down reckless streets.
Coming to keep order when in their heads they hear something ring.
Coming from a bell ringer higher up the hierarchy , setting them loose from their regrets.

Like Pavlov puppy dogs injected with a performance enhancer,
the departments all coerce to promote insight paralysis.
Learning their lines from security dressed seducers,
tracing their tricks all the way back to Genesis.

Down by the river
they're mopping up another murder.
The words don't mean a thing,
when all you want to hear is someone sing.

A song bird out in the back yard.
Trying to keep the beat while it's still preserved.