with the Phoenix police
in the tear gas times
sittin' in with the news models,
are chillin' in the sussustudio,
but at Second and Van Buren
the naughty are brewing for a fight
covering their eyes with their hands,
flying under the radar, naked in the desert lands,
charring up their fairy bones
and she gotta work in the morning
but now she's gotta go underground,
seven years of peace got no peace,
seven years of yeast infections and got no lease
and nothing to do but now, with two options,
fight or retreat, the sulfur fire burning in the face,
facing the master race, the canininites out in front,
the Trump channel turning on,
with Willie and Bernie and Babe and Rat Bear,
fired up in the fat fog, crazy as the Fourth Estate Guy,
who gets it next, they grab him by the neck,
with the K9 unit comin' down to bring the Jesus ...
If only because there is hope for all of us.
If only. If. Only. Hope for all. One nation,
under great odds. One nation going quite O my gawd.
One nation under the heat. One nation under many storms,
within, and without, increasingly so more without, than in.
We the people who formed a better thing than the One.
We the people thinking outside the box of lost frogs,
running in amok, in the muck, like dead peasants, dead ducks:
One nation running out of luck, dying in the yuck, what the fucks
while money is speech, and speech is drowned in the diffusion
of the quickening, the quicker, the more dead. Ain't it so, Fred?
One nation, screwed to the floor by the Fed.
Many who are now dead,
One nature under the unnatural
with enemies from within,
enemies from without,
with no time to twist or shout
E kay Gee. Spy king of the KGB.
Tree sap sucked out of the trees,
quite untested and without a teevee,
can't even afford a teepee, nor TP;
Oh thine eye that always sees,
we are all more nerve-wracked
than sea-sickened honey bees
Could it be the sun?
One nation under the gun?
The dogs set loose to run?
The mysteries of the sea?
The networks selling beer,
fear, the diva of the year?
Is it all above as so below?
Do you have an inkling, Drumpf,
do you even know?
This is more than just your reality show.
It's all about the gas, man.
It. Is. All. About. The gas.
To keep us running fast,
to win the future that never exists,
running past the master plan,
the Season of the Man,
the runover Santas,
long gone since Viet Nam,
on the long gone corner,
holding out a can
for loose change,
answered with a "Thank you, mam."
And then there's nurse named Mary,
who died at the crisp of the Great Recession
The daughter who lost her mind,
only to become wild
in the whoosh of the North,
now a witch, living in the woods,
living in the ditch, hounded by the cyclops,
who beat her back down, black and blue, bruises to prove ...
the soul-eating Egregore is born in red, white but who?
But they hesitate to arrest her again,
since she knows her God-given Black Madonna Gothic civil rights,
and the peace officers don't need that now, not tonight
Oh Lord! O gawd no oh no. Oh Lord.
On the day the telephone call came,
hearing of her mother's suicide,
after losing her job, her home,
her pride, all in one week,
She was never the same and neither was I.
One nation of fevered
beauty queens to the south,
cast in a world of doubt
Fighting their way up the ladder
in service industry jobs.
Feeding the piggy slobs,
reptilians with their morning eggs.
Swabbing the decks.
Driven to exhaustion by the heat,
carbon dioxide
and conspiracy news.
Working double-time
to make a dent even close
to the way their father had it,
their grandfather, even harder,
since the farm is gone.
The trouble all starts when the land is sold.
This world is too old.
It's gone into retro,
and softly luminescent
in the swimming pool
moonish day-glow.
Enemies from within,
tangle like the angels and devils
of our best and worst energies
with the enemies from without ...
No one's got no clout.
It's money that talks. Money that shouts.
Generation boomers,
checking on their Bloombergs
in their Sunday morning bloomers,
saying fuck them man it's me firsts,
me precious, me firsts. Me. Precious.
One nation under the fog
in breach-birth and stinking of bongs,
trying to just somehow get along,
singing one long damn "American Idol" song.
but the video goes up and it's show time on CNN
with the feedback meme running just a little too long.
but she made the clip, she tragically hip.
You can see her in the light
O gawd no. No. Can't be. Mary sweet God No!
Not My MOM! No!
Hidden in the fright. Full of worries,
nothing ever new, nothing ever right,
just her truth and her second sight,
asking the Baphomet what to do tonight.
Feedback loop. Fruit loop truths,
in the ultra violet byte,
killing the metaphysical germs,
living with the worms,
just past the portal
the truth of our most ancient
ancestors wrestle with their immortal,
just closing their eyes to feel normal.
We are one stand.
Like the Aspen, man.
Listen. Just listen. If you can.
Look into the free emergency exorcism light,
then you'll feel a little sick,
did I mention Tricky Dick,
or is it "And Ronald Reagan,"
what is the password again?
You been hypnotized, again and again,
I know you don't remember and it ain't no sin.
Now you can be just a human being
A human being. A human. Being.
O say can you see by the dawn's early light,
Jack the Jester and the Bard are here with you,
holding your tiny little hands
It's no shame, man
You can still be a hero
to the everyman
~ Douglas McDaniel,
Phoenix, Arizona,
August 23, 2017
Douglas McDaniel does way too many things at once.
but if you Google "Mythville," that will be him, for you,
one damn googlewack in the morning hue.
but if you Google "Mythville," that will be him, for you,
one damn googlewack in the morning hue.
