Zhit` svobodnim ili oomyeryet!

Vince aut Morire!

Lebe frei oder stirb!

- Various translations for the phrase on the New Hampshire state flag, Live Free or Die!, except for the second one, which means Conquer or Die!, which is a completely different thing

Mythinformation Radio Free Arizona The Bard of Artville: Heather Kirk O.-Links: Psychic Weather Report Avatars R Us Submit Your Poems The Bard of Mythville
New Media Shredder
Willy B in Cyber S Mythville on the Google Stretch Come, See Jerusalem Enviro Digita
Radio Free Arizona at G21.net Automous Author Last Water

Thus Spake Thundersaid: America Has Broken

Yesterday, as soon as I was able to stop throwing rocks and screaming, I sat down and cried for a long time. Watching my last great hope exit stage left was almost more than I could bear, my hopes for a true moral leader dashed. Naw, John Kerry isn't perfect, but he represented very simple yet elmental things: integrity, heart, principle, and hope. Hope for a world that gnashes its teeth and cowers in fear of The Empire. ... Read More.

Los Huerseros

Laying down his bones
in the dispossed
back alley,
the bone man shivers
in the streetlight

Ambushing archers,
waiting in the wood,
keep a keen eye
far into the distance
for the enemies
of love

She picks up his bones
breathes flesh from her stone,
but then walks away,
stinging his flesh
with a slap to awake him

Leaving his bones, again ...

Le Heusero died again,
and he lingers here,
beneath this tree,
as the corridor waits
to hear the song
of the beautiful man
whose legend is told
from hill to hill,
mountain to mountain
& sea to misty sea.

Knight Falls in Temple, Texas

TERRY KNIGHT was murdered defending his daughter at his home in Killeen, TX on the night of Nov. 1. It is with sadness that Grand Funk Railroad issues a statement regarding the death of Terry Knight.
Read More.

Come, See Jerusalem: More Than You Need to Know

During the course of this summer I have been blogging links to the situation in the Middle East, and now this link monster archive is really more than anyone needs to know in order to make a good decision on election day. Now, in recent weeks, I have determined that while Dubya may be a decent enough fellow on his ranch, as well as at the ballpark and golf course, he is a Napoleonic bull in the china shop in terms of international affairs. So this blog goes to you, George (wake up!) as well as all of the rest of the false prophets who have built this Armagedon machine based on the self-fulfilling bad code of the Book of Revelations, as well as the opportunist eschatological fucks who came before you.
Read More.

Long-distance Frontrunner

This week`s Mythville edition of Radio Free Arizona:

Think you have issues with teens and their overloud music at home?
Imagine this: A wall of sound emanates from the suburbs and more than just escapes the bedroom, it redoubles every space upstairs as earplugs are more than merely necessary, they are a critical safety issue, and the whole neighborhood quakes as Frontrunner rehearses at home.
The five-piece band features Chandler teens whose sound is as forceful and bracing as any racket playing the local circuit ...
Read More.

Springsteen Bashed at G21.net

Another edition of Radio Free Arizona:

I have always loathed Mr. Bruce Springsteen. And it is more than just having the Boss hanging around, bossing around my radio airwaves for decades and decades. Not so much the music I loathed, but his fame (especially this crap about him being the Boss). Not so much his fame but the people who made him famous, that is, his fans and his fawning critics. Not so much all fans but just the few that I have known over the past, say, 30 years. ... Read More.

To Bidi, Or Not to Bidi

Automous Author blogs as he struggles with smoking:

About a week ago I was having a coffee on a Sunday afternoon with one of my best bards at the Biltmore, a swanky shopping mall in Phoenix, when I noticed that while I was smoking the drift was floating onto the table of an older gent who was getting really annoyed. So I offered to switch tables with him so that we could be downwind from him ...Read more.

Social Darwinist
By Douglas McDaniel
To the sound of silent cyberpunk we go:

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist
Gotta get ahead of you (Seventy two hours)
Seventy two hours as a Social Darwinist
Gotta get an edge over the loss,
vengeance is hip you know
Gotta get a handle on the guilt I miss
gotta get a multiple set a girlies to kiss

Spent seventy two hours as a social Darwinist
Gotta get over you (seventy two, seventy two, seventy two hours)
Seventy two fucking shitty hours as a Social Darwinist
As you tried to convince me of your Know Nothing bliss,
I let my eyes look away, if for just a minute (Seventy two, seventy two seventy two)
Being anti-social ain`t darlin little Darwin
You won`t like the feeling, your empty hand will be shaking (seventy two, seventy two)
Won`t like the smell as the whole world is quaking (seventy two, seventy two seventy seventy seventy two)

On the third day I flew across the sky
rebuilt the temple of love, I did pray
Sure, I fell, makin` a hell of her heaven,
and man O man let the bunker busters fly.

I ran for cover, O sweet Sweet Twenty Three Skidoo (Twenty three, twenty three twenty three skidoo)
By the sixty-ninth hour as a social Darwinist
I ran for cover, looking for the way you look at me,
hoping and I`m praying to look up to you.

(Jaggedy Guitar riffs here)

Three more hours as a social Darwinist,
for just three days I forgot about you (seventy two, O, seventy two, yeah)
Seventy two hours of living from your hand to my fist
Seperate but equal, sure, gotta get a step on you.
Treated every living thing like my private little toy
Dreamin of the cosmos now, when I was just a boy (Darwinist)
Wore your love like a glove but there was no joy (Darwinist)
Gotta get around these blank walls, gotta get over you (Darwinist)

In the Beginning
There Was a Word
From Our Sponsors

Welcome, O welcome
the many winged archetypes,
supple and black,
enfolded in milky white,
milky way white,
hanging in midair,
peering through
the portal, the slinky tube
of the time traveling
Dream Catcher wheel.

Help is on the way ...
Hooray. Hooray.
Help is on the way …
Hooray. Hooray.
For whom?
I cannot say.

They exist in the imperfect
Shapeless spaces unifying
Our oppositional own imperfect
Spaces. They resonate in
The ripples of the swimming
Pool light at moonlight,
And intimate choices
Made by man and volcano
Long ago.

Help is on the way …
Hooray. Hooray.
Help is on the way ..

As they wave, pleading,
Begging for business deals,
Moving closer to our dreams,
Tumbling through timeless
Synchronistic switches
That speak our name.
They twitch in the fierce
Firestorm of the Eve-bitten
Apple, and dance,
frightened and purple

Help is on the way,
They hope and pray:
Hooray. Hooray.
Their master, like ours,
Has up and gone away.

- Douglas McDaniel,
for an upcoming new book of poems,
Telluride Sangrael

For other published work by this author, see:

Mythville Book Store - Lulu.com

Ipswich at War
A few days after Sept. 11, 2001, poet and essayist Douglas McDaniel moved to Ipswich, on the North Shore of Massachusetts. A collection of poems from that period of fear and anxiety, as well as the polemic essay, "Media Arts and War."
Read more and purchase

Glasnost Lost
As an act of defiance after the botched election of 2000, experiential author launched himself into a journey into the underworld of American life, or, what he calls: The Science of Descent.
Read more and purchase

Mythville: One

Godz, Cars & Cannon
Experiential author Douglas McDaniel launches himself into a real-life search for the so-called Da Vinci code, driving into the networked thickets of American life, looking for signs of myth and romance in the age of automotive machines.
Read more

Buy my stuff at Lulu!

Note: The latest poems for a new book by Douglas McDaniel, Time Enough for Smoke ...

Sacrifice Me

Let me be your lamb tonight
Let me be your meat
Sacrifice me before a prayer
For thy fasted sacrificial meal
Let me be your hunted due
Let your claws sink into my skull
Send love into the Venus transit
Of my eviscerated soul
Let me be your sacrifice
Let me be your meat
Tonight, take my blood
Tonight, take my heat

Bardstown, Kentucky

Happy Hollow Road
is a place where grain elevators
watch over Ford trucks
in an asphalt parking lot
& steam rises from pipes
as birds fly south
& I lay stretched
and pray for Booker Noe,
master distiller emeritus
to explain why, exactly,
she is lying to me right
now, and I cannot forgive,
should never forgive
as I swallow my pain whole,
hoping for invisible Bourbon
to set my soul alight
as ash burns holes into my chest
and long soft little fingers
move away from me

Savage Pilgrim

Sparks flew off her fingertips
the first time they met, this much
we know. It was a blue flame, a red
dot of light. She had sad dreams, blue eyes.

When he saw her for the first time it was over
before it even began. So terrified was he
of the process, well not the process,
but the end game of love, well,
the Savage Pilgrim was terrified
of the threat of lost love,
what it could do, how it would feel

Terrified of what love can do to him;
but without love, there is death,
death moving in, fine and slow,
in white wings, a mercy

He told her: Keep all my passwords, please,
and my money, my keys, when you receive
this note, don`t look back, just go.

The Savage Pilgrim lies in state tonight.
He loved the girl so much it hurt,
he told her so much it was all he could
do to stunt his words as they crawled up
through his lips, into the Void, that botched
job, That Fake.

Silently, he would ask: Marry me? Bound me
to this mortal soil? She said No.

Preposterous, sayeth she, not the marrying kind,
and so love and failure became simultaneous
epitaphs in his brain. His weakened, tormented,
chemical addled mind. Of the heart?
Who knows for sure? The Savage Pilgrim,
a sprinter, a conjurer, in leather boots,
a time traveler, a breach birth, just another
botched job as it moved through space, a misfit
full of lies and sacred music, his tomb, his life,
his death ... the long distance race ended
when he met her.

Not much choice in these matters: Not for love,
who he loved, who he plundered, where he ran for cover,
like a vampire, he, stealing hearts for fuel, even
in the end (though the Savage Pilgrim knew better),
this is all a test, really, a lesson. Life is practice, see?

So they lay there, on the stones overlooking
the Red Rock valley. He told her: It`s all right
with me if you just want to lay here and die together.

She was completely free (well, not really)
but connected to him (yeah, right buddy)
in ways they would never completely understand.
In the Valley of Death, the psychoanalyst roamed,
she bobbed and weaved through a dotted juniper grove,
stamping through pinion and prickly pear below.

That was right after he saw the face of Gaia
in meditation, of Esha Na Glese, of Changing Woman,
with a broad pudgy face, broad lips, wide forehead,
bad teeth (now that was a detail he would have never
considered ...)

There would be no sexual healing, no earth healing,
for the Savage Pilgrim, who lies in state here,
stretched out, stretched, a stretching wretch,
victim of psychoanalyzing half-truths, and worse,
dopey metaphysical mush about love and lust, truth and trust,
for he knew: The other side of every wing is higher, even,
than the spiritual thing.

Gaia, moving in mysterious ways, was just a manifestation,
and so the Savage Pilgrim moved across the earth and plowed
it asunder; haunting for the sound of her thunder, her body
moving under. For her torso to worship or whip, it was obvious.
His church was her passion, his city her lips, her toes he kissed
in mythic bliss.

But she forgets like the moon bouncing back light, like a monsoon
storm in summer, barren and cold by the fall. Weary and old, with a love
that just scolds, frowning its brow, all enclosed, refusing his heat
as the Savage Pilgrim ran from his dimming soul and found it, again,
on the empty still streets before dawn. For a time, her churned,
for maybe a full moon, maybe an eclipse, maybe two, yearning for her touch.

But ashen and true, a white lunar dust, she made a bland dream
of mountain and bones. The Savage Pilgrim, in a chilly mornin`
moondance, walked into the city square, left on a razor sharp boat,
a fine edge he borrowed from some woman, some new soon-gone tommorrow.
He lifted from here, in the Tao of Ra, dreaming of her ta tas, her
black eyeliner, her jaw, eclipsing his blood within the dark
in staccato chants, morbid, then silent, his last big romance.

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