Devil's Music Made Me Have Sex!

Give Me

Here's the Spear, eloquently ventilating his spleen as he's done for nearly 40 years.

Give Me - Burning Spear

He stood there, silent; long, thin hand on long, thin hip, between long, thin leg and long, thin belly. His hair had molded itself into some sort of bush Mohawk. Perhaps the Bri-Bri, in their wooden shacks built snug against the jungle hills above the town, this town wedged carelessly between jungle and sea. Perhaps they wore their hair so. At any rate the hair seemed shaped to ward off evil spirits, which were, no doubt, more visible to him. I saw only madness, and something in the eye, it seemed, a pain, or human empathy, an open window, unguarded, of a soul in hiding. Traipsing up and down the dusty town square, sometimes with machete, more often carrying a long, thin walking stick that bowed as he leaned against it. At night, in the town square, resting dolefully at the windows and open doors, as close as he was allowed, later, when most tourists found their beds, he would slide in the back with a few others and dance in the late evening darkness. At that late hour, in that brightly painted wooden room, in that town so seemingly “beyond”, there was nothing to do but to move, and nothing, indeed, to stop you.

Like from a trance, the night would emerge once more into day, and whenever I fell out of bed to return there, under beating sun of noon, or later, he would be there, somewhere along the road, scuffling off to fish, or rather sit beneath the trees, upon the dead reefs, gazing out at the sea in crack-eyed contentment; or if not, perhaps in hunger, longing for a mother long since gone, a past that never was, and some forgotten future lost to time.

Scared For You

She said she'd send pictures of herself with an AK-47. She said she'd point the weapon at the camera and she laughed. She said something about a bomb shelter near the kibutz she'd be living in and her phone cut out.



She said not to worry and I told her I was really just scared for her. She said, "I know." She told me that she's just so happy that she finally "gets to do what she wants." I asked her if she could change her mind and come back to the US if she got there and was scared or unahppy. In a very womanly, grown-up, even maternal, tone she said, "Yes, Reuben. Of course I can come back."

"Some people can't be told that the stove is hot they have to touch it." - My father.

This message goes out into the ether to land on deaf ears.
I write to you to tell you that I feel love for you.
Tears collect behind my eyes, but I cannot cry.
You are a long way away, climbing further and further.
I hope that you don't end up like your brother, my childhood friend, Terry.
I pray to no God in particular that your mother does not lose another child to a distant cause.
The community that you feel you will be joining in Israel is really right here in the place you run away from. I want to tell you this, but you don't want to listen.
There are bombs falling. There is no right side of a war like this. I want to tell you, but you most definitely don't want to listen. You have chosen a side. You are bold, fragile, confident and confused. I want to hold you and never let go. I can feel what your mother feels right now. I can feel, even for a moment, what it must feel like to be a father or a mother.
Jennifer (as your mother named you) - Mihal (your chosen name)
I wish you luck and invisibility.
I bid you a safe farewell and an even safer return.

Love
Reuben

My Government White Papers

The beautiful gentle horse is cold.
Sleeps all day and all night.
Trembled fingers lick at his ears like breezes tipped with gold filigree.
Intermittent drops of blood in a white sink, a mirror with no reflection, a deep gash in an invisible cheek that leaks like an open gutter.
Find it in yourself.
Say it only once and move on.
Don't tense when you hear a siren whooping blast in your ears close enough to feel hot rubber tire in your nose, to smell red flames along the doors of an El Camino singing oompa loompa drinking expensive champagne stolen from two teenagers broke loose from private school to go riding.
See there. Buddy Hackett doing his laundry.
Nelson Mandela playing mini golf with the severed leg of a palomino horse, still cold.
Still cold......
................It's a still cold......
...........................A still cold.....
.......................................Still..................

An Attic, Of Sorts

It's unfortunate, perhaps, that expression should seep so slowly from my melting spongy brain, through my numb, tingly pinkies, digitized, flying close to the speed of light, riding on the sum of all human knowledge, to sit archived in a dusty little corner of the global communal hive mind web.

Perhaps I'll just ride the tubes.

"Entourage" cracks me up. I wish I were a rich Hollywood fuck. Hey, it's honesty I'm after here, not being a 'good' 'person' with 'ethics' and/or 'morals' 'and' 'i' 'am' sick 'of' 'typing' 'mini' '-' 'quotation' marks, not to mention feigning some art over commerce line of bull San Francisco pretense. We all want to sell out. Let's face it. Some of us are just more dishonest about it. It's my opinion, but I'm sticking to it.

Trick Finger (click me)

Trick finger. Doesn't push, it shore don't pinch, never did do no pointin' too good. Even though that's what got us into so much trouble. Goddam that fucker finger in the middle for spitin' the trick. All washed up now. Wasn't a year ago, this trick finger wasn't trick. Fully functioning, limber as a pistol, ramroddin', trigger-happy, touch senstitive as a mother. Did a lotta work for me, didn't she? Handled a woman, stroked her thigh, woke her up in the mornin' hard as a nail, wrestled a few minutes without a hitch, took her downtown in a flicker and made with the Trojan Magnum wrapper while the knees held her down firm on the bed. Sweet, sweet memories. It's not so much that you appreciate her when she's gone; it's more that when she's around the lights shine a little brighter.

Like I said, wasn't a year ago, or don't you hear too good. Coulda been eight months. Can't be sure. Seasons changed a minimum twice, max at 3. I'm sure of that. But out here we don't get a lotta differences. Weather. We got some, but mostly in gusts and farts, like in an afternoon we'll get us a full tilt thunderstorm just pissin' down rain, then out come the blazes, then the earth blows her cheeks out pushin' down the tall grass.

There's a lot I gotta do here to make sure things don't tumble down. Can't do it no more, least not as sailin' smooth without the trick. But like I says, it wadn't trick before. It's taken on a new look to me now that it's bent that way. Tells me where to turn, but it's always wrong, lifts things like a hook but they tend to fall off. Helps me on with my shirts and that's none too easy cause they fall to the floor by the dirty stack if I don't bend my upper body more than halfway to parallel with the earth. Everything in my life is bent to the side. All the fridgerator magnets are tilted sideways. I've developed what the doc calls a strobismus, kinda like a wandering eye. The world's gone ass over backward. Nothing's the same.

I never did mind havin' things go wrong in life. Got used to a certain way, even if it wouldn't be the way I'd tell it in a storybook. But it was same and familiar and I called it my own. Shit seemed to go amiss in a standard manner like when a record skips. Coming to me like I asked for it, like I grabbed that needle and scraped it over the grooves till they smoothed out and skidded over the top like a frozen pond.

"I aint afraida you." I said that a lot, just before gettin' belted in the chops. I came back, though. Scrappy and raw. People avoided me when I had too many drinks, unless they had a hardship and wanted to take it out on a littler guy. That'd be me. Almost always the littlest guy, specially the littlest willing to scrap. I aint afraid. Even with this gimp finger. I'd still take on a challenge, fight 'em to the grave.

Cheese grater. Not much of a name, but we're not much of a readin' people so you get what you deserve I guess. Cheese grater (aka Nick Gentry). Thought himself the police of the roads, christened himself the lord of the dirt 'n fences. Folks let him have his way. It was that or he'd grab your legs from behind and drag you someplace. It was his signature. Like some fighter's got a mean left and a haymaker that'll drop a guy, or Mike Tyson's got that ear-bitin' thing he does. Well, the Grater's got his draggin' you on the face through jagged rocks.

He wouldn'ta done it to me if I'da not deserved it. And I supposed I did. Flat told him, and I figure I was the first at least in a long while. My own signature item, I said "I aint afraida you." Stuck my finger out near his face. He looked like a zoo animal who hadn't been approached up close in a long, long time. Nervous, but happy, read to play. And his eye twitched. Three or four times real fast. If he was a cartoon character, he woulda said 'yaggedy yaggedy yaggedy' and his head woulda spun around. He came at me runnin'. Charged me like a bull. Stupid as I was, and am still, don't get me wrong, I turned to run the other direction toward the fields. Probably shoulda laid flat on the ground or made myself into a ball, cut off the number of handles he coulda grabbed onto. Grater bore down and caught me by the calf. Like a calf. My chin slammed down and I heard a click. Pretty sure that was when my front two teeth busted. I realized he had a hold on my index finger and my leg. He had me in the shape of a bow without the arrow. He flung and dragged me round in circles till I kinda started having fun at it. 'Round and round the cobblery bush, the monkey chased the weasel."

Why didn't he just kill me?

Pity. Wished he had.

I'm a shell of the man I never was. Wanted to be, but never was. I lived alone all my life. Daddy lived in Bizbee, Arizona since I was four. "Aint no point." Funny, he said those words, my momma told me, and she said 'em too when she was drivin' fast in reverse in the pickup. I could hear her sayin' it over and over under the sound of the engine and the rocks metal pingin' up under the metal carriage. And as she drove off with my baby brother cacklin' laughin' and pointin' out the back window. She just kept sayin' it. "Aint no point. Aint no point. Shoot, just aint no point."

I get it now. I get it. I don't have to hear it twice no more. But I still aint afraida you.

Drums of Defiance

"In Jamaica, Maroons intermarried with Arawak and Miskito people from Central America, establishing independence in the back country as the island changed hands from the Spanish to the British in the 17th century. Jamaican Maroons fought against slavery and for Jamaican independence from the British. A famous Maroon rebel was Granny Nanny. She is the only female listed among Jamaican national heroes. Nanny was leader of the Jamaican Maroons in the 18th century. The Jamaican community has immortalized her in songs and legends. She was particularly important in the First Maroon War in the early 1700s. Granny Nanny was also known for her exceptional leadership skills. For example, she planned guerrilla warfare that confused the British. To this day, the Maroons in Jamaica are completely autonomous and separate from Jamaican culture. In their largest town, Accompong, they still possess a vibrant community of about 600. Tours of the village are offered to foreigners and a large festival is put on every January 6th to commemorate the signing of the peace treaty that was signed with the British after the Maroon War." More history here.

Nyabinghi Medley - Group of Maroons from Accompong

"To be the One" by IDAHO

There's a genuine pressure on my heart today, like a fucking fat sonofabitch elephant on my chest. So many things cause turbulence, all of them whipping around and around, this cyclonic cylic t-storm in all its gritting teeth and consternation. It starts with no mass at all, just as a shower of particles, ideas, thoughts without grounding in reality or rationality. Actually, scratch that, it all begins with a single thought, one lone individual panic. It hurts a little bit, like a pin prick on my mind but numbed, heavily medicated. Visualizing a subway tunnel, sweaty, mustiness, enormous heat pushing through. The tunnel is like a mouth, entrance to the neck and throat and beating heart and lungs of an old man. This still rank heat is the breath of a giant whose body we are inside of. This initial thought, pushes impulsively through the gates and, rather than just hopping on a train and disappearing into the darkness, it lingers, walks around in circles. It begins to frustrate, to condemn, but it is still alone. Moments pass and another of the morning's itches attacks through turnstiles, bending the metal as he forces his body through. There are two now. Then, a third enters. This one is more attractive, elegant even, a temptation, one that lets her fingers alight on my neck and find their way down to the small of my back. Another body knocks her away violently as I'm beginning to relax in it. She falls to the ground and lies there grinning up, while the fourth punk rocks his way around the place, storming. Now we have a fine chaos, a truly belligerent combination. And each of them seems to spawn another set of circumstances. They interact, the conflict, starting fights with one another, bickering, trying to make plans and finding that they want soemthing different on the same day or the same thing on different days and there's an unknown quantity to it all. There's no way to know just how many of them are stirred up in this shit now. The tunnel is full and hotter now. It stinks of it.

It's hard to think with all this going on. That's all I'm trying to say. I'm just feeling a litle overwhelmed I guess. It will pass.

ARE YOU WIT IT?

So, I just love the world. Whether it's the etymology of the word "1337" or the "secret" codes of the wonderful revelatory bible, the breadth of human creativity continually astounds me. We are able destroyers, too, lest we forget. All we lack are the extra arms to make us godlike in our expression of human frailty. But why express frailty, when it's funner to be butch? Don't think about the future, cause its all in your head. The only things true are things we can see, and well, I for one am almost certainly blind in one eye, though I'm not sure which one. Incredibly, some people are afraid. I say there is nothing to frears but frears itself. What's so scary about the middle ages, anyway? They were only dark because of the ice age, really. Just pack a coat, and quit whining. There are too many people anyway, so get with the program, be a team player, and stop complaining. while the breeze is blowing...I am not a human being, I am a machine.

CLICK ME: Most beautiful song ever recorded - Michel Portal "Max Mon Amour #1"

CLICK ME: Diamanda Galas "The Thrill is Gone"

Betwen the night's sheets

I woke up this morning with my eyelashes glued to my cheek. There was a vague silhouette leaning down toward me. Fresh new white sheets pulled up around me, soft lips on my cheek, and I felt like a child tucked in with too much good food and bad television steaming up the windows in my head. I was newly born today. We were newly born. I want to run around in the streets like Wile Coyote from rock to rock, but it's nearly 100 degrees already and it's only 10 AM.

I'm going to bring glee to my shrink today. He'll smile at me and have nothing to say. What do you say to a person who's happy? What do you say to a person who was sad yesterday and is happy today? What do you say to a person who has nothing to complain about? What do you say to a person who thinks they've figured everything out on their own? Is it like talking to a religious zealot, someone who climbed a mountain, filled his lungs with the fresh air of epiphonous revelation, was nearly impaled on the horns of a giant ram but conquered the beast staring into its eyes with this newfound intensity or a thousand Christs? That's not me, but still... What do you say? What would I say to me? Other than, "Congratulations. I think our time is up."

But, not to worry, my fears usually take hold of my valor and shake it around in its teeth before long. I'll be back. My panic shall return. The nauseous anxiety will rise like a dark cloud and cover the sun. Or maybe not. Maybe I'll cancel any future appointments with my shrink, climb back to the top of a mountain and stay there. Maybe. You never know. "Congratulations. I think our time is up."

Bad intentions, I have heard, are
Tense and nervous in expansion
Of their silence, which keeps secrets
From the angels in my head.

Irregardless, please believe me.
If you wish to. Pretty, please? Don’t
Ever listen, never said I’d
Bring you visions but of stone.

Territories in our heads, they
Shrink before us, in a way, like
Pools of water, lapping softly
At our ankles, in the snow.

But, hey, listen…Ever hear the
One about the barracuda
Who went swimming with the mullah,
And the rabbi, and the priest?

They all thought they, knew the answer,
So they feared not any water,
And they waded awfully quickly
To the deep end of the pool.

As they sank they wondered, quietly
Filled with dread, in their last instant,
Very quietly, in their minds, if
Maybe they could think again.

Perhaps next life, mused the guru,
Sitting grinning, very comfy,
They’ll be eating, in the way the
Barracuda eats the fool.

At that moment fell the fruit of
Greater wisdom from the tree of
Worldly knowledge to strike firmly
On his head, and made him cry.

From above, he heard quite clearly,
Though he might have just imagined,
Gentle laughter, as he lost what-
Ever sense he may have had.

Up there Newton shared a giggle
With that Bohr, and Charles Darwin
Oh they rigoled like Pagliacci
When he found his love impure.

But they made so much a racket,
That the branch gave way beneath them
And they got to see up close that
Very Earth they knew so well.

Well the sight was awful, pretty,
Though there was no one to see it.
So, in truth, you have to wonder
If there really was a fall.

CLICK ME: John Zorn's Masada (Live in NYC 10/04/1996)

Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me there's a religious cult imprisoned in a mountain. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that, sealed under dirt and rock, falling pieces of the hillside engulfed in ruin trap my body, feet sticking out the bottom, twiddling toes, strangely satisfied. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that it's alright. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I'm safe in prison, that no one can find me here. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I'm sadder than I was when my mother died in her bedroom while I lost my virginity next door. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that I can get up tomorrow morning and keep from sobbing like a drunk purging his insides of a gallon and a half of bourbon. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that there's a pattern to the solid white snowblind. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that gospel choirs sing out of key on purpose in their praise of God. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to bite down so hard that my teeth crumble to dust in my sweated palm. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to shut up and mind my manners, to stop crying or I'll be slapped, to sit still and quit twitching, stop being a jerk, or I'll have love taken from me forever. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me to build a fort. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me when to stop building it, to keep myself from compulsively cleaning the same dirt from the same crack in the formica table where food and grease collect and nothing tells me that I should forgive myself for everything I've done wrong. Nothing tells me. Nothing tells me that there's an end to the words on the page, an end to the bad news reports, an end to the end, an end to the beginning, middle and end of nothing.

Why can't I be Iggy Pop. He bears his self-inflicted scars, unashamed; he flaunts them. He sings his blue-eyed scarred soul. "Momma, I shot myself up...goddamit, I didn't know what I was doing."
Momma, I let myself die, slowly. Sinking into oblivion. Nirvana, draining out my ears. Christ, momma, I don't want to die! Christ, momma, please let me live, if only for today. Let me feel the rain come calling at my window. Let me feel it slide down my skin. Let me once more, at least, run circles in the rain, with no future, no past. Let all be hard breath and heartbeat, til I collapse in hysterical laughter, the mad laughter, eyes opening to the reflected awe of all.

I'm a hack. I sit and sit and sit and type and type and type and I come up with handfulls of shit. I sift the shit through my fingers and let it drip down my arm and hit the page. Still, it's shit. Goddam worthlessness of it all. Even when I complete things, they feel immature by the time I'm done with them. I outgrow myself like a toddler outgrows his clothes. It's insane. When will I catch up with myself? When will I feel like I am comfortable in this shoe size? Never? Is that the whole point of it? To constantly chase your self. To always feel a step behind what you feel you're capable of. It leaves me with an interminable feeling of dissatisfaction. That's the truly unfortunate part of it. I feel like a dick. I read my own work and I feel alterantely miserable and pitiful. Even if I were to read this pointless ranting I'm doing here, I'd feel the same. I can only hope that no one will ever have the misfortune to read this pitiable self-loathing discharge.

So, I had a terrible night of sleep last night. I moved from the bedroom to the living room and slept on the couch. Immediately after I snatched up the pillow and made for the door, my wife, if that is who she says she is, rolled over and said, "Yes, now I can spread out" and flopped over to consume the entirety of the bed with her 4'10" body. That made me feel worse than I already did because I knew that she didn't care. She's the cause of my sleeplessness in the first place. Or, rather, WE are the cause of it. We're not getting along. We're at odds on most things, even the trivial bullshit of a normal day. We've managed to devolve into some primordial blob versions of ourselves, tapping into the most animal, snapping, reacting, freakish, base ways of living. We are like Pac Man and Ms. Pac Man. We just chomp up the little pellets and move on to the next level which looks strangely like the last one but faster. (What a sad analogy. I haven't even played a video game since 1988. Have they progressed since Ms. Pac Man? I don't know).

Oh, no more self-pity. Time to move on. This is the kind of stuff that I usually keep private. Maybe it will stay that way. Maybe it should.