Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

Act III, followed by Act IV

2009-12-08T20:55:00.000-08:00

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Chilly Scenes of Winter

2009-12-06T22:33:00.000-08:00

It was cold on Friday morning...

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Chuck and Bobby's Holy Grail

2009-12-06T08:37:00.000-08:00

who gives witness to this tale
of chuck and bobby's holy grail
of young men lost behind the veil
think of them by and by

the face that stares out from the past
is running hard and running fast
the flags we fly should fly half-mast
for so much that has died

the face that is the soul of man
a face unwanted in this land
but some were strong and took a stand
while some birds never fly

upon the field the athletes say
'all bets are off when fairly played'
and boys to men play unafraid
this cannot be denied

a deeper wound cannot be made
it cuts us far beyond the grave
the one that haunts us to this day
our nation's greatest lie

we cannot change what was before
our lives are more than just a score
but in our hearts we can do more
we can spread our wings on high

tell us the story of these men
until at last it will sink in
stand for what's right, again, again
their souls are resting by
their souls are resting by

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I read a feature in today's (December 6, 2009) Oregonian titled "Two tough Ducks in a Klan town" written by Herman L. Brame. I could not find the article in the online version of the paper. You can read a brief history about the two Oregon athletes I refer to in the words above (Robert S. Robinson and Charles A. Williams) here. I feel a heavy sorrow for how they were treated, and for them, but they were not alone--the book of our nation's racist past and present has many, many chapters.

If nothing else think for a time about the road that has brought us here, and think also of all those who have traveled its difficult route: from rich to poor, white and black and brown and yellow, men and women, young and old. On that great road of history, look up at those who walk towards you, and Seek not the mote in your enemy's eye but pluck the beam from your own.

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Let This Be Thy Rod and Thy Staff

2009-12-05T09:39:00.000-08:00

Yes, it is pointless to protest against state-sponsored murder, to plead for sanity and reason and compassion, to say no to the warmongers and war profiteers. Yes, it is inevitable that we will destroy each other for a few dollars more, or for an imagined god with a white beard instead of a black one. But Peace is a vibration too, and would love to have you as a friend.

Be defiant, and ask the soldier and the farmer and the baker and the mother and the office worker and the neighbor and the moon and the sun and all the stars, indeed all the universe to chant with you, to sing with you, to affirm life and to not be cowed by those in love with power and the enticements of destruction: all we are saying is give peace a chance. Funny, people still think those are subversive words!

Keep those words in your hearts and on your lips, and if you feel alone, that's okay too: just give peace a chance.

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Great Lanterns of Fire

2009-12-05T08:27:00.000-08:00

My wife and I and our very good friends from Silverton went for a stroll after seeing The Road in SW Portland, and found ourselves looking up at red lanterns outside the Portland Art Museum. I prefer it when we decorate the world rather than blow it up or poison up. I suppose that I am naïve.

A beautiful image of the Red Lanterns can be found here. A moving image of the lanterns can be found here.

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The Opinuary Column

2009-12-04T15:28:00.000-08:00

The Opinion "the War in Afghanistan is different from the War on Christmas" has flown into a craggy mountainside and died, the impact crushing the sleigh and scattering the contents willy-nilly, the various guns and rocket launchers broken to pieces across the barren rocks that roll down to the pock-marked valley below. Amid the cacophony of AK-47s and surface-to-air missiles, one can just make out the muffled cries for aid from the tiny Military Industrial Complex Elves as they spend the last full measure of their devotion, beyond all hope and charity, in the bitter cold of a despairing world. The Opinion was believed to be three and a half years old.

Raised among the candy cane poppy fields of North Kantstanditstan, the Opinion lived an idyllic childhood gathering tinsel and ornaments and holly and improvised explosive devices to play with, delighting in the colors and banners and deafening explosions, each in due course. Baby Jesus, acting as the One True Manager of the Opinion, was spotted as he crawled into an armored Humvee near Kabul, wherein he drove off for some unknown destination, leaving no instructions for a successor. Who will be our new Field General? Will he (or she) run a steady assault on our enemies, or just throw 30,000 additional Hail Marys until the reindeer are replaced by drones? Stay tuned!

Family of the Opinion have asked that in lieu of flowers everyone blow shit up and then drink massive amounts of alcohol to deaden what isn't already dead. The key to enlightenment is self-medication and violence, and the road to salvation is heavily guarded. After the service there will be a brief explosion, followed by eternal darkness. Happy Holidays!

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Rehearsal for Attack of the Living Shadow Photo Shoot

2009-12-01T18:01:00.000-08:00

Background story: the large, bare tree is seen here discussing her shadowy talents with the building that was cast as her partner for the shoot. The sun, which provided the lighting, said nothing. The night showed up just a bit later, and that was that.

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Attack of the Living Shadow

2009-11-30T21:00:00.000-08:00

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Letter to an American President On the Eve of Destruction

2009-11-30T20:52:00.000-08:00

I sent the following email to President Barack Obama. Does it matter? I don't know.

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President Barack Obama,

How I wish there were words that I could write that would sing to you like trumpets played in Heaven--words that could fill your heart and mind with reason and compassion enough to say "No more" to the bloody madness of fomenting war in Afghanistan. Words to reveal the inanity of a policy that insists we can somehow control and steer the various peoples of Afghanistan through state-sponsored violence.

You have inherited much as our President, but you have done so willingly. In a sense I don't ask that you listen to the better angels of your character, but that you take a larger, bolder step and embody the better angel of our nation's soul.

I wish the words of peace and justice would sing to you, and that you would hear the song above all the calls for war, the so-called "serious and sober" cries for the exportation of despair to a fractured nation whose injuries have never healed, and may never heal.

If you have already decided upon your course, so be it. The temptation to use the largest military in the world to maintain hegemony must be a strong one, but you can resist the devil's bargain: turn the spigot of blood off! It really is you who can do this: the moment is here.

Have you ever doubted that the hand that stays the sword is more powerful than the one that would wield it needlessly? Be the strong hand that stays the sword! Be our Daniel at the lions' den! Hear these words I have written--hear them as soundings from an eternal trumpet!

I guess this note I send along is a bit like a prayer, but I am not praying: I am hoping.

Good luck, and peace be to you and to all you would lead and protect, and to all who would learn from your wisdom!

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The Opinuary Column

2009-11-27T11:31:00.000-08:00

The Opinion "It's morning in America" has died from complications due to the time now being late afternoon--the days grow shorter and shorter until light itself is but a fleeting visitor. The banks have the citizenry by the balls, the military industrial complex is in full career, health insurance companies buy and sell politicians for fun and profit while human beings are denied health care primarily because they need health care. If this is the afterglow of Morning in America I daresay it must have been one hell of a bomb.

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion asks that the general public provide ever increasing amounts of money and power, to be handed over to them in all due haste (and without protest) and please keep the goodies coming if you know what's good for you, lest something truly awful comes along and beats you down into a hole so deep you won't be able to crawl out of it, which can be arranged, capiche? Nobody wants that, because that would mean we're Mourning in America...and it could make the children cry. And we don't want to make the young ones cry, do we? I thought so.

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The Opinuary Column appears each and every Friday at Jesus' General.

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A View to a Bridge

2009-11-22T13:40:00.000-08:00

about to turn right on Naito
looking to my right:
such beauty

I fumble for my camera
turn it on
take the pic
drive off

winter is one month away

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The Opinuary Column

2009-11-20T01:18:00.000-08:00

The Opinion "The heart and soul of a country are under the dominion of its most cynical, manipulative power brokers" has died, having been struck by the smallest beam of illumination, the cleansing light of self-reflection. True, the "heart and soul" of the abstraction known as "Real America" is often up for grabs among the hucksters, demagogues and snake oil salesmen who exploit it for all its worth, but for the time being the grab is too weak, too desperate, too unhinged. The FOX may be in the hen house, but seeing as how he is dangerously exposed it is possible he will be pecked to death. At the very least his gnads could be gored.

The Opinion was born and raised in the land of unfettered rapaciousness, where it lived as it pleased and took whatever it wanted. It built the dream and stained the bed, and did it cheaply with slave labor, before and after the War Between the States. It proclaimed the exceptionalism of America, editing out the parts it didn't cotton to, until a time came when ignoring the demon only put more fire in the belly, fire that nearly destroyed the entire nation. What was sold as freedom was bought in caskets and misery, and many a family wept itself to sleep.

In our time, the Opinion has been bought and paid for by those who live as royalty, who wave the flag and their checkbooks in unison, a blur of patriotism and profit. Take heart: there are still those who feel the nation has a purpose beyond gaining mere capital and power, a purpose as an experiment in justice and democratic rule so powerful that the possibilities and potential of all could be vouchsafed, if only as the faintest of hopes in our common dream of democracy. It was in this myth that the greatest power of America lay, for though the advance was slow it was dedicated, though it was outspent it was not denied, though it was shouted down it would not stay silent. The greatest myth of all, the one beginning with We hold these truths to be self evident, survived regardless of the thorough malevolence of its adversaries, and endures as a wise reminder, the brassiet brass ring of all. It is always there, waiting.

A nation's creation mythology is important for a time, but like all myths must eventually be discarded and replaced by something that smacks of reality, of objective accounting, and ultimately of reckoning. Here in America, where the center cannot hold any more than anywhere else in the Universe, the violence that haunts us will still play out, the passion of fear-based belief will still pitch its fits to deny our common humanity, but the ground of what is in the collective gut and heart has been planted with a new crop, a new seed, a new dawn. That seed is you, dear Reader, every single day of your life. Every day that you, a free citizen, consult with your own core, the very essence of your being, and discover anew what is radiantly clear: that Glenn Beck is a malignant, meretricious nutjob and Sarah Palin is a human whoopie cushion--every day that you renew those truths to yourself is a very good day indeed.

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion will continue to spend millions and millions of dollars upon lobbyists and media to thwart, befuddle and bludgeon you and yours into a permanently submissive state, except when it suits their purposes for you to march and kill and that sort of thing. I suggest that you be wild instead. Be difficult. Be alive.

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The Opinuary Column (now in the morning slot) appears every Friday at Jesus' General for what better way to start your day than to do it reading about death?

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MJS LEGS SPREAD

2009-11-16T18:44:00.000-08:00

I found the following "comment" at a website that states it is the "Ministry of Communications: Republic of Ghana". Poetry or prose, it goes and goes and goes...

Hi! the giver book waterbeds the giver book waterbeds fast cheetah run fast cheetah run barracuda fish pictures pants barracuda fish pictures pants clear plan ovulation monitor beats clear plan ovulation monitor beats 1/4 mile time for hemi daytona glasses 1/4 mile time for hemi daytona glasses home depot french sliding doors home depot french sliding doors great depression kind woman great depression kind woman brandy talore tied up brandy talore tied up characterizing incomplete penetration welds stephanie characterizing incomplete penetration welds stephanie snowflake other lands correntewire mjs legs spread snowflake other lands correntewire mjs legs spread Bye!

It does have a kind of jazzy beat to it. Sign me up!

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Iron Cat and Shadow Cat

2009-11-16T10:56:00.000-08:00

Iron Cat

Shadow Cat

This concludes the posting entitled "Iron Cat and Shadow Cat."

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The Opinuary Column

2009-11-13T15:30:00.000-08:00

The Opinion "And for what he has done, we know that the killer will be met with justice –- in this world, and the next." has died as a result of a self-inflicted impossibility, for there is no way "to know" about a "next life" for which there is no evidence. Not to put too fine a point on it, but there is ZERO evidence of some other realm in the intimated after-world. None. Zilch. Nada. To state "we know" and to follow that with "the killer will be met with justice--in this world, and the next one" is a gargantuan pile of oratorical horse puckey. True, it may be helpful to remember that this particular intonation of unprovable hogwash has been delivered by our President at a time when our nation needs to be reassured that the facilities where our soldiers are trained to kill brown people are doing just fine, thank you. And if the hanging judge doesn't get you in this life, you still might have your neck snapped in the next! Hip hip hooray!

The Opinion is joined in death by the thousands of veterans and active duty soldiers who kill themselves every year for a variety of reasons--following the President's logic, one reason why our troops are killing themselves with such alacrity could be to gain the opportunity to kill themselves in the next life, you know, to get to the head of the line. Also joining the Opinion in death are the thousands of veterans who perish every year as a result of having no medical insurance. It is widely believed that these veterans will be denied medical care in the next life as well. Just ask Joe Lieberman.

The Opinion is also joined by over a million Iraqis who will be given the chance to greet our newly dead as liberators in the next life, but have been cautioned to drive slowly up to the St. Peter White Zone Check Points and to follow all instructions very, very closely, after which they will be fired upon anyway. It is hoped they will receive justice in the 3rd Incarnation (the next, next life) but only the very religious can say (and you know they will!).

In lieu of flowers, in this life or the next or any other life to follow, friends and family of the late Opinion ask that you wear proudly the chains of spiritual bondage, that you nod your head with great sobriety whenever a national leader invokes Bronze Age dogma, and that you do the hokey pokey and you shake it all about. That, in this life and the next, is what it's all about.

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The Opinuary Column appears (in multiple incarnations) Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Monday Prayer

2009-11-09T10:55:00.000-08:00

mjs is guest blogging until the General returns from his Weekend Intensive with that nice man from Seattle. It must be pretty intense indeed because the General's nurse never usually calls on a Sunday, but that is not our concern. Here follows our prayer for the coming week:

Lord, who is God of all that is oilesque
And tar-like, and greasy, and flammable
Dear Lord, may it please you to know
Our wimpy concerns about the environment have abated
Our vision to Vietnamize Afghanistan is proceeding
Our commitment to burn the Black Gold is solid
We burn it in your name, Dear God Man Guy Lord

Oh Yahweh, who doesn't like to be called That
We sing your praises, for You seek our praise
Which is your thing, don't get us wrong, but...
Perhaps you wouldn't kill so many of us if you, well, you know
Took some responsibility...
Forgive us, Lord, for we are made in your likeness
And are therefore full of thine Piss & Vinegar

Forgive us, dear Lord, for just about everything that ticks you off
For the crime of not finding your Cloud Cave
For the crime of not tweaking your Beard
For the crime of not singing popular songs outside your bedroom window
Forgive us, dear Lord
But we don't get around much anymore
Amen-ish

Please excuse our retardification, dear Lord
We know your Math is Supreme
And that which profits our corporations profits Thee
At least that's what we're counting on
For somebody is making money Hand over Proverbial Fist
Surely, Thou dost know this
Truly, You would have done something about this by now
Verily, your silence indicates your interest
For by Your silence You make a Great Noise which none can hear
(pause)
Forgive us our intemperance, but why not just come out and say
Whatever the fuck it is that you want?
Amen

Dear Lord, the Middle Eastern One
The Monotheistic Construct
Not that other one
With all the heads and that massive boner
Just want to be very clear which Lord we're talking to here
Dear Lord
We thank Thee for our cars and our trucks
Our trains and our skateboards
And for sex--without sex Life would suck even harder
Than it does, which is kind of ironic--the sucking part
Well, you get the gist of that

Dear Lord, thank you for our metal and our plastic
Our monofilaments and various and sundry textiles
That take longer to break down than it did for You
To create this vast Amusement Park we call Earth

Just one question: dinosaurs became birds?
Really? WTF dear Lord?

Please give us the strength to get through another week
Of hype and misinformation and managed histrionics
Please embolden us to not just lay down and eat
All of the corporate shit that is routinely fed us
Amen

Dear God:
We hope you don't catch the H1N1 virus
And if you have gonads, please keep them away from a vise
Seriously, we're not joking here
Keep your gonads far, far away from a vise
It would hurt you so much, to have your balls
Crushed in a vise--so much, it is not even funny
Amen

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images taken by mjs near Long Beach, Washington.

Originally posted at Jesus' General.

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The Opinuary Column

2009-11-06T10:22:00.000-08:00

The Opinion "Freedom isn't free" has died after a brief illness, owing in large part to its inability to pay for badly needed medical treatment. Having spent its early years being invoked to shut up dirty fucking hippies, its later years degraded into increasingly violent confrontations with health insurance companies and their motto "Health Care Isn't Free, It Isn't Even Health Care." With no more Free Time on its hands, it joined the ranks of the approximately 45,000 Americans who die every year because, well, you already know why.

Born during the era of The Vietnam War Isn't Free it was viewed as a comforting remonstration against anyone who ever pussifyingly questioned the rightness of our nation's bloody habit of killing brown people in far away lands. After returning to civilian life it suffered from a variety of ailments, many believed to be a result of traumatic head injuries suffered in bombastic verbal combat. Never exactly sure why Freedom wasn't Free, nor able to say just how much would have been a fair, going-rate price for Freedom, it mostly shook its fist at traffic and listened to Agitated Merakin (AM) Radio.

Having married its childhood sweetheart (Sex Isn't Free) only to discover its mate wanted to keep its night job, it sought a divorce (that wasn't Free) and lived out the rest of its years as a Free Spirit. Not. It fought its addiction to Crystal Meth (Cheaper Than Coke But Still Not Free) and Tobacco (the first carton for soldiers was Free, but after that, not so much) with grit and determination, which it had in buckets (buckets that were Free but had to be returned when it was done with them).

In the weeks before its death, the Opinion was often observed meditating on a litany of uncomfortable realizations: it had discovered that its apartment wasn't Free, its bar tab wasn't Free, its groceries weren't Free and, having failed to appear in court on misdemeanor charges, it suffered the additonal ignominy of facing the fact that indeed, not even its DUI was Free ($250.00 just to post bail!). Its only words to the judge were these: "In the bastardized yet immortal phrasings of Kris Kristofferson: Freedom's just another word for something that isn't free..."

Family of the deceased Opinion are asking that, in lieu of flowers (which aren't free) that each and every one of us do our part to dismantle the Military Industrial Complex until all that's left is a small, fossilized pile of Dick Cheney's draft deferments, which will be placed in a museum where tickets will be sold if you want to get in. War isn't Free, ya' know!

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The Opinuary Column usually appears (for free!) Friday afternoons at Jesus' General--this pre-Friday noon posting is the exception that proves the rule. Heh.

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David Brooks is Delbert Grady

2009-11-01T20:16:00.000-08:00

David Brooks has written a piece of shit opinion piece that calls Obama's balls into question, vis a vis his willingness to order the killing of more brown people far, far away, and to sacrifice lives to do it. Brooks is a war-monger, and since his having been breathtakingly wrong about Iraq was not enough to have his soap box taken away, he continues to inject his sickly venom onto the pages of the New York Times. Shame on them, shame on him. Seriously, this crap is indefensible.

Here follows is a copy of the letter I wrote the NY Times in response to his "you ain't got the balls" opinion piece. Yeah, nobody fucking cares what I think or write, but that's not the point, is it? All that has to happen is that you fucking care. Do you?

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Subject: Re David Brooks "The Tenacity Question"

Editors,

David Brooks writes that he contacted "...the smartest military experts" he knows, and finds they all are concerned about President Obama's "determination" vis a vis his being a war president. Brooks writes: "But they do not know if he possesses the trait that is more important than intellectual sophistication and, in fact, stands in tension with it. They do not know if he possesses tenacity, the ability to fixate on a simple conviction and grip it, viscerally and unflinchingly, through complexity and confusion. They do not know if he possesses the obstinacy that guided Lincoln and Churchill, and which must guide all war presidents to some degree." The words employed by Brooks are taut, masculine, intense: Obama must "grip" a "simple conviction" and do so "viscerally" and "unflinchingly." Brooks seems to be pining for George W. Bush's unwavering allegiance to state-sponsored murder, at the same time he's not above hauling in Lincoln and Churchill to provide cover for his bloody fantasy.

What Brooks' writing brought to my mind was a brief encounter depicted in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 film version of the Stephen King novel "The Shining." In the lip-curling scene in question, the former caretaker (played by Philip Stone) of the Overlook Hotel suggests to Jack Torrance (played by Jack Nicholson) that he'd better get on with the task of "correcting" his family. From the film:

Grady: I see you can hardly have taken care of the business we discussed.
Jack: No need to rub it in, Mr. Grady. I'll deal with that situation as soon as I get out of here.
Grady: Will you indeed, Mr. Torrance? I wonder. I have my doubts. I and others have come to believe that your heart is not in this, that you haven't the belly for it.
Jack: Just give me one more chance to prove it, Mr. Grady. It's all I ask.
Grady: Your wife appears to be stronger than we imagined, Mr. Torrance, somewhat more resourceful. She seems to have got the better of you.
Jack: For the moment, Mr. Grady, only for the moment.
Grady: I fear you will have to deal with this matter in the harshest possible way, Mr. Torrance. I fear that is the only thing to do.

What kind of morbid question is Brooks really asking here? Does Obama "have the belly" for the slaughter that will occur as a result of continuing and possibly expanding the war in Afghanistan? To what purpose, this macho posturing? To what purpose should our youth be sent off to kill and be killed, maim and be maimed, driven mad even as they rain despair down on the people of that war-torn region? The mountains of Afghanistan are strewn with the bones of British and Soviet troops whose commanders "had the belly" for sending their young off to die, but shouldn't we all be asking, in the "here and now" as to what purpose do we sacrifice more of our nation's youth? Lincoln preserved the Union, Churchill kept the flame of liberty in Europe burning, but to what purpose should our President "fixate on a simple conviction" and stain the living world with yet more blood and tears?

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Author's note: If David Brooks could feel shame I would bring him over a million servings of it, delivered in caskets, accompanied by a soundtrack that howled from the bitterest depths of hell.

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The Opinuary Column

2009-10-30T12:05:00.000-07:00

The Opinion regarding Halloween which states "During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches" has died.

The Opinion, born in the fevered pumpkin head of Spooky America, has died this time of year many, many times before, yet it is still carried in the hearts and minds of some of the most addled, frightened and morbidly stupid people this planet has ever known. The true face of evil has no face: it denies you medical care and then blames its shareholders. It tells you what to think, which it does by telling you not to think. The greatest demon in the world today is ignorance, and its reign is secure, its throne unassailable, its primacy unmatched.

In lieu of some vaguely Satanic gift like flowers, the family of the late Opinion ask that you give candy to strangers one night a year, that you answer your door that night with a smile and a "Boo!" and that you live your life as if it was just as much fun as you can imagine it to be. Happy Halloween!

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Martin, the Porch Spider

2009-10-28T21:52:00.001-07:00

on our porch there lives a spider
whom we have taken to calling "Martin"
he is rather large
i suspect he would like to drive my car
if he got pulled over he would freak out the cop

when i return home from work i duck my head
at the entrance--i don't want that huge spider in my face
i look up and say hello to Martin
I try to make small talk:
How are the kids?
Putting on a little weight?
Saw a neat rainbow today
you know, small talk

it would be fun if i had a hat to tip at him when i come home:
"Evening, Martin" said the man, tipping his hat.

Martin never speaks (to me)
but he does flinch when i'm nearby
i suspect that my perfunctory greetings
are grating on him
but he bites his tongue (i think it's a tongue)
and plays it cool:
he's got a good thing going
he eats very, very well
lives in a nice neighborhood
nobody hits him or sprays him
or tells him to get a job

Halloween is coming this Saturday
tomorrow i'm going to ask Martin
if he'll give out the candy
even though he gets cranky sometimes

he'll probably not respond directly to my question
he'll just make that weird face he makes
and then he'll snap his jaw off and scream horribly
hissing his ghastly cries
venom dripping slowly down where his chin used to be
his arms slapping me like hairy scissors
his web alive, crawling with disgorged offspring
thousands of spiders attacking me
dragging me to the driveway
leaving me there to die while they drive away
shrieking hideously, a triumph of hell unleashed

i think i'll wear a hat tomorrow

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image by mjs

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Ardor among the arbor

2009-10-26T10:11:00.000-07:00

the trees wear their leaves
until the wind seduces
soon, a nude winter

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image by mjs

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Sing it, Jesus!

2009-10-23T16:57:00.000-07:00

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The Opinuary Column

2009-10-23T15:08:00.000-07:00

The Opinion "You can't buff a turd" has died as a result of injuries suffered during a turd-buffing contest that was held in our nation's capitalism. Apparently, you can buff a turd if it is of a consistency that allows for that sort of thing, but a government that operates on such a belief is likely to be so busy buffing turds that it will be covered in shit before you can say High Colonic. It is believed that a surfeit of lobbyists offering to put a shine on a mounting pile of shit may have led to the death of the Opinion (a case of too much of a shitty thing). The Opinion leaves behind a stench of work-related miseries and a shitload of friends and relatives.

Born among the assholes of our Founding Fathers, the Opinion led a quiet life until television came along, an appliance whose ride to media primacy eventually led to citizens asking embarrassing questions as to why our country was trying to kill small yellow people working in rice paddies. The first known public "buffing of the turd" was held on the White House lawn during the annual Easter Egg Hunt festivities in 1967, at which time napalm was used to counter any and all egg-cloaking foliage. This event turned out to be a turd of such epic proportions that it had to be buffed by a team of fecal-buffing experts, working around the clock until they all ended up with shit for brains. Seriously, if you ever visit our nation's capital stay off the White House lawn.

After the 2000 selection of George W. Bush to be our nation's Cheerleader, turd buffing became the nation's largest growth industry, resulting in the massive hiring of thousands of lobbyists, pundits, apologists, fabulists and fatuous carnival barkers, who plied their trade polishing the ever increasing pile of shit that had grown inside the bowels of our businessment* class. Be it wars based on lies, sweetheart deals for government contracts, environmental degradation, securities fraud, et al, each scurrilous exploitation of the Commonwealth required deft and rapid turd buffing on a scale never before seen on this or any other planet. Oh, what times it had!

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion asks that you wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

*Business + Government = Businessment (this portmanteau was employed here because fascism jumped the shark and stubbed its anus).

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Fly away, birds

2009-10-19T13:48:00.000-07:00

summer was a time for wings
flying on the winds from china
we could fly to rivers running
we could sing beyond the sorrows
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

autumn comes in from the forest
the smell of darkness, land of shadows
the colors of the ancient pageant
leaves they are all falling down
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

looking at the book of nature
the pages all connected strangely
no words to tie it all together
everything already bound
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

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The Opinuary Column

2009-10-16T15:04:00.000-07:00

The Opinion "You're no fun anymore" has died as a result of uncontrollable, nay hysterical laughter, apparently experienced while sitting on the couch eating pizza and drinking pork soda and farting and burping and scratching itself and engaging in all manner of disgusting personal proclivities that make for poor theater but excellent television, while wearing very dirty underwear that didn't belong to it and spitting repeatedly on the cat. Authorities have released a statement which reads, in part, "...the Opinion was a turd-monger" and "...not only are you still fun but you smell terrific as well."

The Opinion, born during the vegetative Reagan, pre-Bush 41, ultimately mid-Clinton era of casual prosperity, welfare queen-bashing and bank regulation euthanasia had been enjoying a a renaissance of sorts, commencing with the Bush 43 administration, as wars in Iraq and Afghanistan weren't and aren't terribly fun, and Hurricane Katrina wasn't the laugh riot many had hoped it would be. Not even Condoleeza Rice's buck teeth could get the nation giggling, nor Dick Cheney's habit of shooting people he was out having gun drinks with. No, none of it was much fun, and a lot of people died and had to move and were tortured and conspired against and exploited and manipulated and stomped on and, well, it may have been a lot of things but fun certainly wasn't one of them.

That changed today when I learned that Monty Python was going to be on American television in a documentary about spam which will be shown beginning Sunday (Oct. 18th) through the following Friday (Oct. 23) at 9 p.m. EDT on IFC. Family of the Opinion, who aren't completely dead but aren't at all well, have asked that you stay the hell away and mind your own business. It's bad enough just as it is, thank you, so don't go mucking it up any further. Now run along and do something with your life, for crissakes. Go on. Go.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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