M'Shi Ha M'Shi 

Shi Melek Shamayiim

Each day is a birth, an adventure, followed by the personal apocalypse, leading to revelation ... then we sleep, in dream, a kind of pyrotechnical death ... then we are reborn ... hopefully learning from yesterday ... doing it all over again ... each day ... Each Day


To be higher,
than my own mind,
up the stairs, in a tree,
singing sweet electricity


M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim


Currently a mayor of maybe 100 monkees, which was the plan all along ...


Have you noticed that most of those things we call terror or security or surveillance are essentially zombified zero-tech fear-brained zoo animals intended, successfully so, to scare only you, are only automated devices signifying nothing ... or is it just me?

M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim


 They found him beneath the stairs staring at your feet, but seeing your head,

all back-masked and Beatlesque

Ordering in, ordering out:
They found him naked,
running mildly about

They found him lighter,
mightier, than the devout,
in Las Vegan, New Mexico

They found him in Las Vegas,
too, too, too, turning off the TV,
staring back at you.

They found him on a tape recorder,
after having recorded,
a mad chant to an enchantress

They found him, laying on his back
on a mattress, having failed to pay,
with coin, to breathe Fox News air

They found him everywhere:
In journals, on bathroom walls,
on the covers of novels unsold

They found him brilliant, lit,
deviated and sane: They found him
listening to Jefferson Airplane

They found him scraping ice
off some shorecraft
in British Columbia

They found him with forty eight
states of being on forty eight
motel room keys, thumbing dumb

They found him at the Ritz Carlton
chewing Wrigley's authentic
chewing gum on the run

They found him totalled
in a Thunderbird car
he called "Blue Desire"

They found him riding
the next red micro-wave wave
raiding irradiated green wire

They found him giving back,
the gift that keeps on giving ...
They found him. They found him.

They found him, finding you,
spitting blood on a white napkin,
they found him, finding you.

These governments and their sociopathic corporate supervisors cannot possibly be  telling us everything they know, or, perhaps even more importantly, don't know, about the radioactive plume as it falls into the Pacific Ocean and gets carried into the breezes, and in the sea currents, west, toward North America ...


People should A) Follow their own advice; B) Remember the counseling they have already received, and C) A and B
Yes, during the hay ride, Prince Albert in a Can did notice that, in fact, there were going to be some obvious socio-economic-political differences between he and his Iowan hay ride mates ... but when that girl started to roll in the river of piss on the sidewalk in that little town, in front of that burned out old bar, he really began to see: "This was never going to work ..."
All dysturbia is willing to do for the dangerously mentally ill is to hand the sick an organ grinder, a corner to lay in someplace, sometimes, or ... offer essays on the hows and whys the SMI went mad and killed all of those poor people, and so on ... Meanwhile, Mr. Mitch McConnell roams the land, going boom boom in giant, reptile footsteps carefully covered by FOX NEWS NATION! ... And Sarah Palin
Now what? Really? More need for real education, the end of still more superstition, false propheteering, a more inclusive idea that we, as a planetary network of global citizens are in this together, stupid ... that's what! A new revelation is at hand is ... "what" ... all religions are One ... really is time to think how hot this singed ball of life is, that's "what" ... Motherf***er.
The wolf is having a nightmare now. See what we all did!

M'Shi Ha M'Shi Shi Melek Shamayiim



Image by the late Fritz Scholder



'Me Time'
on the 
of Judgment

Saw a skeleton woman
wearing a Nike cap,
and I thought I was
the only one
who owned One,
so my personal wolf
went careening
down a hill of shale
and rolling stone.

Due to this unbearable
pain to sustain this vision
I bought a plastic container
of Valerian root
in a glazed glass
at the Fountainhead
Trading Post
because I couldn't
stop bleeding on
about why
sacred beings
slip down
the cascade.

Was it poor health care
at the age of eleven,
the speed of things,
the hard corner,
when the wolf
was telling us
to turn more softly?

Was it the three angels
who snored slightly
in the incubator
of history, two smiling,
the other, groaning
over the false report
on the death
of Mother Earth?

for the darkened
breath, mysterios
with no less of a talent,
led me to go around
spraying cans
of spray paint
to see if the newly disappeared
watchers were watching.

O, some still have that talent,
for charming smaller snakes
into deep despair, or,
climbing the highest mountain:

Tapping energy this way
is surely a theft
to restore sun
into decay, but our
stations of transition;
cold, cool, clear,
all swing at the point
of the same vortex,
from many reprimands,
from authorities wearing
big red hats, for vengeance,
for violence, for retribution,
leaving nothing: no fruit,
not even the Tree.

The birds
still sing,
either way.

~ Sedona, Arizona

artwork by the late Fritz Scholder



 O Gaga Me!

I caught Lady Gaga's "Monster Ball" show on HBO and I became concerned, very concerned, perhaps too much too concerned about well, life in general. You know, for the future: The future prospects for human life.
It made me angry. That's because my biggest surprise about it is how angry she is.
What can she possibly be angry about?
That people forgot about Madonna?
That in seven years, another Madonna like her will turn up?
That she, like a Disney film re-distributed every seven years, will be more matronly by then, too?
Somewhat "normal," in that sorta "I study the Cabala" way by then.
She was angry like a fascist dictator gets angry. She has all of the polytechnics of Telemachus: Whoever Telemachus was.
Maybe I'm thinking of the Wizard in the "Wizard of Oz" instead, except in this case Dorothy keeps the broom for herself, kills the snake oil guy from Kansas, and starts to put on puppet shows of her own. Thus, remaining in Oz to thus, make humanity, well, mad. 
Lady Gaga is actually Tell-a-Tubbie Mock Us. She mocks us with her body. The music gets left behind.
She is a brilliant performer, a great musician.
I would be angry, too, if I had to wear all that shit to get noticed anymore.
I would be incensed.
Not censored. Nothing gets censored in the dirty little centers of overworked technology zones of decay and despair and despotism.
I can see her better behind stage in the HBO show then I can onstage.
On stage my only thought is how doomed we all are. If it has come to this.
Not that I'm really buying into the whole doomed trip anymore. I think it's a con.
I think Lady Gaga has conned everyone.
She is part Bono (if only because one of the great unspoken cultural truths about the late 20th and early 21st centuries is that, deep down, the lead singer for U2 was a sex god only women picked up on. Most guys never notice that like I just happened to).
Also this: One of her outfits, seems to me, was originally worn by Peter Gabriel, when he was wearing costumes for Genesis shows in 1972.
She is also part David Bowie. However, I doubt she is really very cognizant of this fact.
There is a lot of Patti Smith in her, too. But only when she was on "Larry King." I liked that Lady Gaga. She was wearing "normal" stuff (whatever that means), as well as cool shades. She looked back at Larry King and said, "Queen moves" to such and such a square: "Check."
I like that Lady Gaga better than the one I saw on stage, so angry. She was cool. detached. I want to take that person to a museum, or, maybe, to go visit the library. We would "get along."
I don't want to see any more concerts where the latest, greatest singer sex-elite has to get so caught up in the pop process, to get noticed, leaving the music behind, making me angry, that I have to wear all of that shit.
Looks uncomfortable.
Looks like the results of a madcap shopping trip to Wal Mart turned into a sort of madcap media melting pot for the even more maddening masses who need additional madness to, you know, get mad.
I guess that would make me mad.
At this point, I should tell you something. About myself. As a critic. I'm sorta Lutheran about this. I'm funny that way. I don't get dirty jokes.
I think Lady Gaga is a dirty joke and she puts on the mask of the clown for us because she has to be a dirty joke, basically a pole dance in a titty bar that sings, to get noticed anymore.
I'm sure, as a critic, if I wanted to get noticed, this would make me angry (er), too.
Who knows? Maybe she liked "dress up" too much as a child?
I have a hard time tying my shoes, and so, I try to find Velcro things and as few shoes as possible.
When I fell asleep after I saw the HBO show by Lady Gaga, I had the beat of one of her songs in my head. I like that beat. I want more of that beat.
Someday, like after I saw Elton John in the duck suit at Central Park, New York, and I disliked Elton John for a long time after that, I hope to someday see a "stripped-down" Lady Gaga show.
Get your mind out of the gutter.
I'm serious. As a critic, probably too serious. If only because I took, for a moment, Lady Gaga seriously when she was on "Larry King," being smart and herself like a literary Patti Smith and I wanted to give her a tour of the library.
Now she, like a lot of women, makes me kind of mad.


Map of the Multiverse

High my name is Cycle in the the Sky
you are beneath me, moaning
Pluto came out this afternoon
and the air stopped breathing

High my name is Cappin' Crunch
and I stared at the cereal box
too long and I missed school,
learned everything needed to know

High my name is ruthless energy
and I was born after everything okay,
then it wasn't and now it's not okay
but that's okay because of chocolate

High my name is Mother and I am worry,
the fear shaping you into a loving being,
who then fell in your father's arms, crying,
led you away into a glaring light, to be alone

High my name is Sister Moon and the Sun
spoke to me this afternoon and said,
"Hey, Zeus, since we all suck let's make
gravity enough to keep our feet planted here."

High my name is Universal and you'll
never guess who is recreated nor smear
the salt into your daughter's wounds
to make hell a laughing anti-matter

High my name is Rock and Roll
and we get delivered white towels
each day to wash us of our sins
and then silence, loud master, breathes again

High my name is Art and Time is yours,
not mine, and the mines, kept open,
the farms, lacking workers, can howl
but man, sure is pretty ... sure is, sure is