http://www.ubersite.com/m/50765
http://www.hiddencity.net/misc/WilliamSBurroughs_AThanksgivingPrayer.mp3
I'm reluctant to update but I'll pass it off as a writing excercise aka ape the ol doctor. It didn't turn out half bad.
National Affairs Desk
The electric green of spring and the clouds of winter are locked in deadly combat in fair cocooned Asheville today with the faint flicker of snow reminding me of a neighbor who looks at you as you pass but never waves. A young man sits typing among a sad single empty bottle and a mound of miscellaneous shit, the fruit of a fuck all cleaning session punctuated by Jethro Tull and entirely too much pissing. That man is me but if it wasn't and instead a fictional character I would writer him in a huge breakfast replete with grapefruit, eggs, coffee and perhaps some free trade cocaine provided it came straight from the farmer and that no hypocrite Marxist machete wielding guerilla had taken his tax collector cut. But then again what is the difference between an illiterate peasant in rubber boots and an urbane city boy in pinstripes and wingtips when they both take a cut of your labor? Somehow I feel the peasant offers a better return but no chance for your child to go off to a university and become the pinstiper. The evidence mounts.
Our own tax day is coming up and they want cold hard cash not granular white base. Thankfully I haven't cleared more than three grand this year and should get something back which I will promptly invest in airplane bottle futures or barring that Wendys heart killing grease sponges.
Goddammit! The cat brought in a bird yesterday and left it on the bathroom rug. A blue jay with a broken leg that clutched at the cheap Wal-Mart mat. I was reminded of the Christian conservative politicians as I looked at the cat so proud for having captured a defenseless shell-shocked bird. How hard is it to convince a shit eating dirt farmer that Kerry will make him marry a man while pissing on the Vietnam War dead if you can quote every line of the book that was bored into his skull in lieu of actual moral or ethical training? How many of those fuckers are violating the flag code as we speak driving too fast in vehicles too big with too small dicks wedged between their fat thighs as a tattered plastic old glory flutters from their radio antennae? Hell, give me a bag of Arby's sandwiches and I could get the entire line of geeks waiting for episode three to suck me off one by one if I quoted a few minutes of the original trilogy and then said what it means to me. Even quicker if I said people who had more fun than them were deviant.
Jesus! This isn't about sci-fi fan fellatio. Its about a clean room in a well lit place with bottles of liquor I don't touch and a van that might be a monument to what politeness will get you in a car accident. Jack shit. I was in Chapel Hill a week and a day ago and after checking my lane I pull out into the road only to stop as the huge blue spectre of a Dodge full-size pickup almost sideswiped me. As I breathed a sigh of relief then vehicles made contact with a sick crunching noise and I pulled back into the spot. A nice lunch at the Rathskeller complete with a sizzling gambler and fries ruined. I got out and talked with the driver who circled the block. I won't bore you with the details but we both were sure we were in the right and had a pleasant aviator clad officer come and file a report. Everybody was polite and now the alternator on the van may be fried.
A long time ago I found an honest beauty in the labor of walking. It seemed to connect me to the nomads who carried their belongings behind them on two saplings lashed together. But after at least a hundred sore footed trips from West Asheville to UNCA campus all the romance was gone, the dress was torn, and stubble poked up in prickles from the alabaster face as the cracking spackled on foundation fell like shard of time into a pool of disappointment. I tell you there is nothing like coming home sweaty and tired to do nothing but plop down and stare at anything to ruin the simple joy of one foot in front of the other. So it is with venom that I consider the root of the evil, that ill fated pull out. If the alternator is fucked then I am too. I just talked to an old friend and coworker about a job at a juice factory. We met in a training class for tech support and soon realized that we were smarter and better adapted to life than the pit eyed, Everquest addicted, trainer who talked in smug, sad, self assured superiority missing his rotted out canines and self respect despite making over ten an hour plus OT and shift diff which we would have never known had he not informed us over 30 times a night. I was working at Tupelo Honey at the time washing dishes in a black butcher apron with a hole in the middle which leaked grey warm dishwater onto my crotch and shoes that served to keep the same elixir of slime close to my feet so getting paid to sit in a chair and listen about DSG was a fine thing.
My friend mentioned the juice job before Christmas and it has been my good paying if distant holy grail ever since shielding me from thinking of a closer, walkable, food service job. I have an arsenal of excuses but they are almost spent, fired in a rapid fury at suggestions that I settle. Yes the Jimmy Steward film "Firecreek" made an impression on me but perhaps not the right one. Instead of pushing farther west I refuse to hear that I stopped my wagon and ate the canvas for starch.
Cocksucker! Where are we? What is going on? Bush paid respects to the Pope yesterday and for all his ape lipped Freudian slips he said he could not condemn homosexuals because he too was a sinner and that kept a small match burning in my heart for him. Never mind maddog Rove is crafty enough to have faked the whole private taping in order to soften the image just like I'm sure he faked those memos to say exactly the truth but in the wrong type set. What the fuck is wrong with the media today when they are so chicken shit as to not chase the truth but lick pop stars' assholes? I'll tell you little has changed except the best minds are not where they should be but rather in early graves or staring at pixels and internet porn. We didn't have this easy to use, track mark free junk when I came up. You had to find your own kicks in the real world but with GTA you don't even have to buy rental insurance to hop a curb and take out light poles and parking meters. The carpeted opium dens of America shelter our promised youth of tomorrow who keep remaking their foul, desperate nests like birds in the spring as they move from home to college to the malaise ridden twenties and the desperate thirties, adding new plastic boxes and more and more media venturing in to the light only to prostitute themselves in food service or worse a button down silk tie choker cubicle gaol to secure enough scratch for the next digital fix. So in charge we have a legion of straight line walkers who never lived a day in their lives just going through the motion until they move no more. No hairy armed extrovert whispered Latin in their ears and after sucking down all that powdered formula from teenage babysitters hired by absent mothers who knows if they would have even heard those four syllables let alone known what to seize and where. Even the anarchists are grinning at their self made butt plugs of better than thou cheap adolescent self righteousness. Vandals who dress alike in red and black giggling as they break windows and slash unmarked police car tires that their parents fat taxes will pay for just like they paid for them to go to a private liberal arts college where they learned enough to hate their whiteness but not enough to change it. I've seen enough thirty dollar leather motorcycle jackets weighed down with a hundred bucks worth of studs stretched over bony arms and pale soft haired beer belly to almost lose hope in punk and that ol' circled A. Revolutionary acts are scarce but what is common is jabbering assholes who point fingers at you for having hope and passion left as they talk about smashing the state and guzzle down cheap beer and chain smoke cigarettes in between faulting corporations for all ills. Irony is broken in America. The youth is bipolar. Either sweat shop made pastels and over priced thrift store copies or an all black copy of a copy of a copy all going back to The Ramones and The New York Dolls and The Sex Pistols the glory days before people could dress like a deviant but still sing the same complacent drivel like Bobby Darien with a sore throat and a mild English accent despite being from Minnesota.
Where are our saviors you might ask? You better look in the mirror boyo because now more than ever if you arent part of the solution you ARE the problem. Because everyday you let them pour that slime down your pock marked gullet is a day closer to your zombiefication. My half queer shoulder is at the wheel. Where is yours? I can't do this alone.
It means NOTHING to throw some surgical steel in your face and stick some ink under your skin if EVERBODY is doing it. We are all jumping off the bridge together and floating down on parent's money (to be viciously denied by those who can no longer get it and have to "work" at a job they could do when they were 15) to some sad forty year old wake up call when surrounded by clones degraded by constant replication and cultural cannibalism only to desperately pray for that clean, searing, sterilizing white blast of a nuke we long ago converted into clean energy for what? To burn forty watt bulbs over quick passionate scratches deep into the night or to power electric pacifiers and million polygon vertex shaded baby bottles of prepackaged good and evil with the player always right and rewarded. All that entertainment goes away when you unplug it but the words can live forever. You sure as fuck won't. And talking to others about killing things that could never hurt you and the joy of photons searing your brain does not validate spending years of your life in a stationary position changing nothing but a save file's binary code. I am as guilty as you but I am changing it. I am with sin and I am chunking a rock right at your fat contented head. React and don't knee jerk in self defense. CHANGE something! And not your goddamned hair color you narcissistic cumguzzler.
If you disagree, DO BETTER. There is no time left to jerk off and feel good about the cooling puddle of meat pudding in your lint infested belly button. We have to act now and SAVE it ALL before it is too late. Cause fuck knows no one else is doing it. Come on you dirty pedophile fuckers, if you don't do at least one piece of art or revolutionary act today I'll fart in your dinner with a splash of rancid ass chocolate for good measure. I have felt the sharp spurs of people remembering HST collected in Rolling Stone and Im galloping away. If you need help go there. If not seek out your destiny and drag it down SCREAMING!
BJS 4/7/05
edit for indents that didn't copy from word,-I guess I can indent on this. I'm dropping spaces but it harder to read without indents.
http://www.hiddencity.net/misc/WilliamSBurroughs_AThanksgivingPrayer.mp3
I'm reluctant to update but I'll pass it off as a writing excercise aka ape the ol doctor. It didn't turn out half bad.
National Affairs Desk
The electric green of spring and the clouds of winter are locked in deadly combat in fair cocooned Asheville today with the faint flicker of snow reminding me of a neighbor who looks at you as you pass but never waves. A young man sits typing among a sad single empty bottle and a mound of miscellaneous shit, the fruit of a fuck all cleaning session punctuated by Jethro Tull and entirely too much pissing. That man is me but if it wasn't and instead a fictional character I would writer him in a huge breakfast replete with grapefruit, eggs, coffee and perhaps some free trade cocaine provided it came straight from the farmer and that no hypocrite Marxist machete wielding guerilla had taken his tax collector cut. But then again what is the difference between an illiterate peasant in rubber boots and an urbane city boy in pinstripes and wingtips when they both take a cut of your labor? Somehow I feel the peasant offers a better return but no chance for your child to go off to a university and become the pinstiper. The evidence mounts.
Our own tax day is coming up and they want cold hard cash not granular white base. Thankfully I haven't cleared more than three grand this year and should get something back which I will promptly invest in airplane bottle futures or barring that Wendys heart killing grease sponges.
Goddammit! The cat brought in a bird yesterday and left it on the bathroom rug. A blue jay with a broken leg that clutched at the cheap Wal-Mart mat. I was reminded of the Christian conservative politicians as I looked at the cat so proud for having captured a defenseless shell-shocked bird. How hard is it to convince a shit eating dirt farmer that Kerry will make him marry a man while pissing on the Vietnam War dead if you can quote every line of the book that was bored into his skull in lieu of actual moral or ethical training? How many of those fuckers are violating the flag code as we speak driving too fast in vehicles too big with too small dicks wedged between their fat thighs as a tattered plastic old glory flutters from their radio antennae? Hell, give me a bag of Arby's sandwiches and I could get the entire line of geeks waiting for episode three to suck me off one by one if I quoted a few minutes of the original trilogy and then said what it means to me. Even quicker if I said people who had more fun than them were deviant.
Jesus! This isn't about sci-fi fan fellatio. Its about a clean room in a well lit place with bottles of liquor I don't touch and a van that might be a monument to what politeness will get you in a car accident. Jack shit. I was in Chapel Hill a week and a day ago and after checking my lane I pull out into the road only to stop as the huge blue spectre of a Dodge full-size pickup almost sideswiped me. As I breathed a sigh of relief then vehicles made contact with a sick crunching noise and I pulled back into the spot. A nice lunch at the Rathskeller complete with a sizzling gambler and fries ruined. I got out and talked with the driver who circled the block. I won't bore you with the details but we both were sure we were in the right and had a pleasant aviator clad officer come and file a report. Everybody was polite and now the alternator on the van may be fried.
A long time ago I found an honest beauty in the labor of walking. It seemed to connect me to the nomads who carried their belongings behind them on two saplings lashed together. But after at least a hundred sore footed trips from West Asheville to UNCA campus all the romance was gone, the dress was torn, and stubble poked up in prickles from the alabaster face as the cracking spackled on foundation fell like shard of time into a pool of disappointment. I tell you there is nothing like coming home sweaty and tired to do nothing but plop down and stare at anything to ruin the simple joy of one foot in front of the other. So it is with venom that I consider the root of the evil, that ill fated pull out. If the alternator is fucked then I am too. I just talked to an old friend and coworker about a job at a juice factory. We met in a training class for tech support and soon realized that we were smarter and better adapted to life than the pit eyed, Everquest addicted, trainer who talked in smug, sad, self assured superiority missing his rotted out canines and self respect despite making over ten an hour plus OT and shift diff which we would have never known had he not informed us over 30 times a night. I was working at Tupelo Honey at the time washing dishes in a black butcher apron with a hole in the middle which leaked grey warm dishwater onto my crotch and shoes that served to keep the same elixir of slime close to my feet so getting paid to sit in a chair and listen about DSG was a fine thing.
My friend mentioned the juice job before Christmas and it has been my good paying if distant holy grail ever since shielding me from thinking of a closer, walkable, food service job. I have an arsenal of excuses but they are almost spent, fired in a rapid fury at suggestions that I settle. Yes the Jimmy Steward film "Firecreek" made an impression on me but perhaps not the right one. Instead of pushing farther west I refuse to hear that I stopped my wagon and ate the canvas for starch.
Cocksucker! Where are we? What is going on? Bush paid respects to the Pope yesterday and for all his ape lipped Freudian slips he said he could not condemn homosexuals because he too was a sinner and that kept a small match burning in my heart for him. Never mind maddog Rove is crafty enough to have faked the whole private taping in order to soften the image just like I'm sure he faked those memos to say exactly the truth but in the wrong type set. What the fuck is wrong with the media today when they are so chicken shit as to not chase the truth but lick pop stars' assholes? I'll tell you little has changed except the best minds are not where they should be but rather in early graves or staring at pixels and internet porn. We didn't have this easy to use, track mark free junk when I came up. You had to find your own kicks in the real world but with GTA you don't even have to buy rental insurance to hop a curb and take out light poles and parking meters. The carpeted opium dens of America shelter our promised youth of tomorrow who keep remaking their foul, desperate nests like birds in the spring as they move from home to college to the malaise ridden twenties and the desperate thirties, adding new plastic boxes and more and more media venturing in to the light only to prostitute themselves in food service or worse a button down silk tie choker cubicle gaol to secure enough scratch for the next digital fix. So in charge we have a legion of straight line walkers who never lived a day in their lives just going through the motion until they move no more. No hairy armed extrovert whispered Latin in their ears and after sucking down all that powdered formula from teenage babysitters hired by absent mothers who knows if they would have even heard those four syllables let alone known what to seize and where. Even the anarchists are grinning at their self made butt plugs of better than thou cheap adolescent self righteousness. Vandals who dress alike in red and black giggling as they break windows and slash unmarked police car tires that their parents fat taxes will pay for just like they paid for them to go to a private liberal arts college where they learned enough to hate their whiteness but not enough to change it. I've seen enough thirty dollar leather motorcycle jackets weighed down with a hundred bucks worth of studs stretched over bony arms and pale soft haired beer belly to almost lose hope in punk and that ol' circled A. Revolutionary acts are scarce but what is common is jabbering assholes who point fingers at you for having hope and passion left as they talk about smashing the state and guzzle down cheap beer and chain smoke cigarettes in between faulting corporations for all ills. Irony is broken in America. The youth is bipolar. Either sweat shop made pastels and over priced thrift store copies or an all black copy of a copy of a copy all going back to The Ramones and The New York Dolls and The Sex Pistols the glory days before people could dress like a deviant but still sing the same complacent drivel like Bobby Darien with a sore throat and a mild English accent despite being from Minnesota.
Where are our saviors you might ask? You better look in the mirror boyo because now more than ever if you arent part of the solution you ARE the problem. Because everyday you let them pour that slime down your pock marked gullet is a day closer to your zombiefication. My half queer shoulder is at the wheel. Where is yours? I can't do this alone.
It means NOTHING to throw some surgical steel in your face and stick some ink under your skin if EVERBODY is doing it. We are all jumping off the bridge together and floating down on parent's money (to be viciously denied by those who can no longer get it and have to "work" at a job they could do when they were 15) to some sad forty year old wake up call when surrounded by clones degraded by constant replication and cultural cannibalism only to desperately pray for that clean, searing, sterilizing white blast of a nuke we long ago converted into clean energy for what? To burn forty watt bulbs over quick passionate scratches deep into the night or to power electric pacifiers and million polygon vertex shaded baby bottles of prepackaged good and evil with the player always right and rewarded. All that entertainment goes away when you unplug it but the words can live forever. You sure as fuck won't. And talking to others about killing things that could never hurt you and the joy of photons searing your brain does not validate spending years of your life in a stationary position changing nothing but a save file's binary code. I am as guilty as you but I am changing it. I am with sin and I am chunking a rock right at your fat contented head. React and don't knee jerk in self defense. CHANGE something! And not your goddamned hair color you narcissistic cumguzzler.
If you disagree, DO BETTER. There is no time left to jerk off and feel good about the cooling puddle of meat pudding in your lint infested belly button. We have to act now and SAVE it ALL before it is too late. Cause fuck knows no one else is doing it. Come on you dirty pedophile fuckers, if you don't do at least one piece of art or revolutionary act today I'll fart in your dinner with a splash of rancid ass chocolate for good measure. I have felt the sharp spurs of people remembering HST collected in Rolling Stone and Im galloping away. If you need help go there. If not seek out your destiny and drag it down SCREAMING!
BJS 4/7/05
edit for indents that didn't copy from word,-I guess I can indent on this. I'm dropping spaces but it harder to read without indents.
Yeah, I need to get some Tom Waits, but I never know which one to start with. I went to a dance performance at the BeBe last weekend, and one of the dancers choreographed a dance to his song Dead and Lovely. It was interesting.