My lot of favorite folks are heretics, lunatics, pagans and the poor. The rich have too many crosses to bear to have much fun.
Last night I watched the film, "Iris" about Iris Murdoch.
Iris's fiction doesn't appeal to me, but, her philosophy of life is marvelous. She and her husband, John Bailey, were a couple of Loons frolicking in fields of Poppy and Lavender Clover.
Iris like, Tolstoy and Orwell, was a visionary who loved words and lived in a world of her own invention, not unlike heretics, lunatics and pagans. She refused to be contained by institutions of church or state, because her vision was the food that sustained her. A true Bohemian ahead of her time, a non monogamous lover, loving, who ever she wanted.
Irish borrowed from Plato's "forms". She gave the "absolutes" a most marvelous twist, which I know to be true. Perhaps we all are exposed to collective memories of "goodness" before we are born. My own twist on these collective memories is " flying with Angels" in "goodness", heroic, Celtic, incorrigible, only to be thoroughly corrupted by the material world from birth onwards . Emily Dickinson also touches on this in her belief that babies come into the world with perfectly clean consciousness that is corrupted as time goes on.
Iris believed we could focus on pure " form" memory as we aspire and become whole, living in " goodness form" as much as possible.
Cheers Iris, you got it kid! I bet you and that loony husband of yours, John Bailey, had allot of fun!
12/25/07
12/23/07
The Anti-Christ Mass
Religion for me is personal and subjective, it does not need to be hung from a crucifix, memorialized in Rome, participate in unholy wars or wear payot.
Modern day religion; anochronic, out of touch, restraining Mother Earth and human kind from breath taking spirituality and transcendence. If Jesus, Mohammad or Mose came back to earth they would be appalled! You could liken this to Norman Mailer's metaphor on NASA Rockets blowing spent jet fuel into space, disturbing the Angels highly tuned sensitivities.
My best Christmas memories are unconventional and have nothing to do with garlands, cozy fires and egg nog.
In December,1968,I went to Mexico with my parents. We were staying at the Las Hamacas Hotel on Acapulco Bay. In front of the hotel, on the bay, there was a small taco cafe that had a juke box with a few Gringo hits of the time. Psychedelic music; Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones.
One Christmas Day, I met a Californian surfer dude and his younger sister, both my age, at the cafe. We shared a common interest, scoring some refer. We were told to look for a Beaner by the name of "Maestro Magico". The process of scoring was like a pagan ritual. When we found the Maestro, we scored a few fingers of "Gold".
We Three Kings went back to the Las Hamacas, hid in the toilet and turned on. It was my first time; we sat at the pool and threw small stones in, watching the water ripple outwards in a circular motion, each ripple a Sacred Madalla of life.
When we got bored with the pool we decided to go body surfing. We were 15, but the Beaners on the beach sold us all the Corona and Tequila we wanted. Corona was great in those days, comparable to German Beer in thickness. We were smashed in a seconds.
After the sunset, we went back to the Los Hamacus to crash. I passed out with my surfer friend’s sister in their room. We fumbled and managed to get it on somehow. I didn't know where her vagina was. Back then, tongue swallowing kissing, was the best thing happening.
Through the haze latter that night, I realized I missed Christmas dinner with my parents. When my mother got hold of me, she hammered out the "riot act" in triplets. She even smacked me a few times.
But I am going to tell you, that was the best Christmas on record for me. No church or crucifix, no cozy fire, no fat dinner, could make me as happy as the partying and virgin sacrifice I enjoyed that night.
Modern day religion; anochronic, out of touch, restraining Mother Earth and human kind from breath taking spirituality and transcendence. If Jesus, Mohammad or Mose came back to earth they would be appalled! You could liken this to Norman Mailer's metaphor on NASA Rockets blowing spent jet fuel into space, disturbing the Angels highly tuned sensitivities.
My best Christmas memories are unconventional and have nothing to do with garlands, cozy fires and egg nog.
In December,1968,I went to Mexico with my parents. We were staying at the Las Hamacas Hotel on Acapulco Bay. In front of the hotel, on the bay, there was a small taco cafe that had a juke box with a few Gringo hits of the time. Psychedelic music; Doors, Jefferson Airplane, Grateful Dead, Rolling Stones.
One Christmas Day, I met a Californian surfer dude and his younger sister, both my age, at the cafe. We shared a common interest, scoring some refer. We were told to look for a Beaner by the name of "Maestro Magico". The process of scoring was like a pagan ritual. When we found the Maestro, we scored a few fingers of "Gold".
We Three Kings went back to the Las Hamacas, hid in the toilet and turned on. It was my first time; we sat at the pool and threw small stones in, watching the water ripple outwards in a circular motion, each ripple a Sacred Madalla of life.
When we got bored with the pool we decided to go body surfing. We were 15, but the Beaners on the beach sold us all the Corona and Tequila we wanted. Corona was great in those days, comparable to German Beer in thickness. We were smashed in a seconds.
After the sunset, we went back to the Los Hamacus to crash. I passed out with my surfer friend’s sister in their room. We fumbled and managed to get it on somehow. I didn't know where her vagina was. Back then, tongue swallowing kissing, was the best thing happening.
Through the haze latter that night, I realized I missed Christmas dinner with my parents. When my mother got hold of me, she hammered out the "riot act" in triplets. She even smacked me a few times.
But I am going to tell you, that was the best Christmas on record for me. No church or crucifix, no cozy fire, no fat dinner, could make me as happy as the partying and virgin sacrifice I enjoyed that night.
12/16/07
Poetry and Great Faces
Great faces, Lincoln, Sitting Bull, Carl Sandburg.
They don't make em like that anymore!
Not a Tom Cruise, or a Jason Timberlake, or any
of the Clowns running for President of the United States,
can compare to the kind of character that these great faces have.
Surely a sign of the times, great faces, carbon in the sands, buried in the Western Plains with White Buffaloes, Indian Blankets and Arrow Heads.
Some definitions of Poetry by Carl Sandburg
1 Poetry is a echo asking a shadow dancer to be partner.
2 Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into
horizons, too swift for explanations.
3 Poetry is the Phantom script that is telling how a rainbow is
made and why they go away.
4 Poetry is a sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.
5 Poetry is the tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the
infinite points of its echoes.
I think C.S. was the Fatboy Slim of the 20Th Century, he could trip the light
fantastic in a single bound. Reading his stuff puts me in a transcendental, mystic place, say, a full moon evening on a hidden lake in a deep green forest, surrounded by golden frogs and fire flies glowing like moon beans!
This is something that going to Church on Sunday could never do for me! That Carl Sandburg does!
12/9/07
The woods, are lovely dark and deep
STOPPING BY THE WOODS
ON A SNOWY EVENING
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though:
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To Stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Robert Frost
ioqeurvnoiqwueboituewoinu2pouv ndajcnaolldkjfalkjlka
Muse of nature disappearing before our eyes,
Replaced by cement and carbon for fast gain.
Try to enjoy that Porsche ride without any trees.
It will come back on itself, Man is a big fool.
God help our Poor Children.
The Amercian Indians believe Spirit will " reset by default" the Earth's Surface by turning it over on itself and burying all the concrete and re bar. Hence, we would have to start over and try to do it again, maybe without greed this time! This could be a metaphor for allot of potential cataclysmic happenings. If Crow Dog is wrong God Spirit help us All!
The New Holocaust is the Black Tar Earth we will leave our children to choke and die on. Al Gore is a thick, preppy nerd, but " An Inconvenient Truth" is on the point. And he has balls to come out and say it!
12/5/07
Horseshit and coal smoke mixed with diesel
"When I was growing up there was a feeling in the air that things were really changing....before the 60s you grew up in the middle of all the bomb sites and rubble left over by the war. London had enormous buildings, but then you could turn the corner and suddenly there'd be three acres of nothing--and the streets were full of horseshit because there were hardly any cars then. I really miss that about London: horseshit and coal smoke, mixed with a bit of diesel here and there. A deadly mixture--it's probably what turned me on to drugs!"
Said with his asshole, nose, ears and eyes firmly rooted to all Earthly, Heavenly and Sensual Muse.
The King of the Opium Charioteers, Keith Richards !
12/2/07
Porno King of Marietta Ave
I had this Town House on Marietta Ave. I worked my ass off on the place and only made Twenty Grand when I sold it. My Stock Portfolio use to go up and 20k a day, but not since 2007.
One time in Milwaukee I was though about renting a room with Tom Mule and realized it would be impossible. He was very meticulous about putting soap back in the soap dish.
In my Milwaukee days I was using coca and herio in the end, shooting speedballs. The Hood was my second home, I use to go into it at all hours. Jimmy Glynn and I had a friend who was a Jazz Trumpeter, Neal the pawnbroker, maybe you knew him. He knew every smack and coca house in the Milwaukee hood. I would travel around like I owned the black hood, whitebread, with my chest puffed out, going to black clubs and soul food restaurants. Black people can make sweet potato pie, white people don't try!
One day in the hoot at a blues concert in the park, a colored gang(bloods)came over to me and I figured I was dead. I opened my mouth and said, "Hey dudes got weed"? And the black killer blood says to me "Jerry Lewis, how you doin brother?"
I had this black girl I was paying for sex from time to time, she had long legs like a Giraffe. I used to bend her over at the window and poke her from behind, while she was saying hello and waving to my white neighbors outside. I would take pictures of naked women with in front of curtain-less windows too, the white neighbors called me the porno king of Marietta Ave. I am sure they are happy I am not living there anymore. For awhile, we were the biggest thing happening for them white folks, me and my black girl
They might have done worse things than me in their closets or on their computers. At least I didn't hide it.
One time in Milwaukee I was though about renting a room with Tom Mule and realized it would be impossible. He was very meticulous about putting soap back in the soap dish.
In my Milwaukee days I was using coca and herio in the end, shooting speedballs. The Hood was my second home, I use to go into it at all hours. Jimmy Glynn and I had a friend who was a Jazz Trumpeter, Neal the pawnbroker, maybe you knew him. He knew every smack and coca house in the Milwaukee hood. I would travel around like I owned the black hood, whitebread, with my chest puffed out, going to black clubs and soul food restaurants. Black people can make sweet potato pie, white people don't try!
One day in the hoot at a blues concert in the park, a colored gang(bloods)came over to me and I figured I was dead. I opened my mouth and said, "Hey dudes got weed"? And the black killer blood says to me "Jerry Lewis, how you doin brother?"
I had this black girl I was paying for sex from time to time, she had long legs like a Giraffe. I used to bend her over at the window and poke her from behind, while she was saying hello and waving to my white neighbors outside. I would take pictures of naked women with in front of curtain-less windows too, the white neighbors called me the porno king of Marietta Ave. I am sure they are happy I am not living there anymore. For awhile, we were the biggest thing happening for them white folks, me and my black girl
They might have done worse things than me in their closets or on their computers. At least I didn't hide it.
11/29/07
I broke them up like merinques
A Study of Reading Habits
When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.
Later with inch thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark
The woman I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.
Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store,
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.
Told like only the Irish can tell it, poet Phillip Larkin. The Irish, way more human than the rest! They were dropped on the planet by God for relief and humor, as His personal Jesters. They have set the mark for humanness and affability!
This poem sums it up for me, laugh!...hahahah! Books...crap!!!!!!
When getting my nose in a book
Cured most things short of school,
It was worth ruining my eyes
To know I could still keep cool,
And deal out the old right hook
To dirty dogs twice my size.
Later with inch thick specs,
Evil was just my lark:
Me and my cloak and fangs
Had ripping times in the dark
The woman I clubbed with sex!
I broke them up like meringues.
Don't read much now: the dude
Who lets the girl down before
The hero arrives, the chap
Who's yellow and keeps the store,
Seem far too familiar. Get stewed:
Books are a load of crap.
Told like only the Irish can tell it, poet Phillip Larkin. The Irish, way more human than the rest! They were dropped on the planet by God for relief and humor, as His personal Jesters. They have set the mark for humanness and affability!
This poem sums it up for me, laugh!...hahahah! Books...crap!!!!!!
11/25/07
Hell out West
Our Hells
Milton unlocked hell for us
and let us have a look.
Dante did the same.
Each of these hells is special.
One is Milton's, one Dante's.
Milton put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
Dante put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
If you unlock your hell for me
They will be two special hells,
Each of us showing what for us
is hell on earth.
Yours is one hell, mine another.
Carl Sandburg, the most just, enlightened and connected person to live on earth in the 20Th Century. Often when reading his stuff my mind leaves the world, lapsing into long train rides in the Wild Wild West looking at Buffaloes, smelling Pine Trees, sleeping on Indian Blankets.
He like his heroes, Whitman and Lincoln had something that seems to have dried up today!
There might be some who call Lincoln, a poetic and soulful version of George Bush ( I like G.B., he has potential, I think he needs to go back to his ranch in Texas and do some serious reflection and screwing around ).
Where are Vision, Heart and Soul today? How has Sandburg, Lincoln and Whitman evolved into Jason Timberlake, Michael Jackson and Paris Hilton? ( I like her though, she has potential!). Are we living in Elliot's Wasteland, are we having fun yet out there?
I am only having fun in my head, riding a "opium chariot" somewhere in a holding pattern.
Milton unlocked hell for us
and let us have a look.
Dante did the same.
Each of these hells is special.
One is Milton's, one Dante's.
Milton put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
Dante put in all that for him
was hell on earth.
If you unlock your hell for me
They will be two special hells,
Each of us showing what for us
is hell on earth.
Yours is one hell, mine another.
Carl Sandburg, the most just, enlightened and connected person to live on earth in the 20Th Century. Often when reading his stuff my mind leaves the world, lapsing into long train rides in the Wild Wild West looking at Buffaloes, smelling Pine Trees, sleeping on Indian Blankets.
He like his heroes, Whitman and Lincoln had something that seems to have dried up today!
There might be some who call Lincoln, a poetic and soulful version of George Bush ( I like G.B., he has potential, I think he needs to go back to his ranch in Texas and do some serious reflection and screwing around ).
Where are Vision, Heart and Soul today? How has Sandburg, Lincoln and Whitman evolved into Jason Timberlake, Michael Jackson and Paris Hilton? ( I like her though, she has potential!). Are we living in Elliot's Wasteland, are we having fun yet out there?
I am only having fun in my head, riding a "opium chariot" somewhere in a holding pattern.
11/24/07
Chariots
Mr Blake's Chariots
Mr. Blake saw invisible chariots on the sky
driven by unseen charioteers.
Himself he saw as a slim wisp of a ashen
mortality
And nevertheless took himself for a charioteer
riding high, grand and lonely.
A poem by Carl Sandburg written, I think, on his impressions of the Poet William Blake.
There are some new Bios on the life of another "charioteer", slash " opium charioteer", "riding high, grand and lonely". The one and only Hunter S. Thompson.
Riding my own "opium chariot" of sorts in the 60s and 70s, I ran into allot of these characters in the Wild Wild West; Allen Ginsburg, Gary Synder, William Burroughs, Allan Watts, Richard Brautigan.
My path never crossed Hunter S. Thompsons, Old Thom, was surely "riding high, grand and lonely". Maybe, unknown as a person, really, to even his wife and friends. It is that way for me anyways.
Mr. Blake saw invisible chariots on the sky
driven by unseen charioteers.
Himself he saw as a slim wisp of a ashen
mortality
And nevertheless took himself for a charioteer
riding high, grand and lonely.
A poem by Carl Sandburg written, I think, on his impressions of the Poet William Blake.
There are some new Bios on the life of another "charioteer", slash " opium charioteer", "riding high, grand and lonely". The one and only Hunter S. Thompson.
Riding my own "opium chariot" of sorts in the 60s and 70s, I ran into allot of these characters in the Wild Wild West; Allen Ginsburg, Gary Synder, William Burroughs, Allan Watts, Richard Brautigan.
My path never crossed Hunter S. Thompsons, Old Thom, was surely "riding high, grand and lonely". Maybe, unknown as a person, really, to even his wife and friends. It is that way for me anyways.
11/23/07
To all my Friends!
"To all my friends", (quote from the film, "Barfly" screen play by Sir Charles Bukowski). This said, with his ughly head half cocked, peeking through a hole in the Universal Haze, wondering if there is anything out there?
My name is Miles Pepper. I once went to a poetry reading by the great Buk on the the North Side of Chicago. It was like a Beat Church Service of sort. When it was time to pass the basket some poor slob offered Buk a Pint, Buk of course took a big draw ( this is the stuff that image is built on right?)
At the end of the reading I took Buk aside and asked him how he made it through life? " One Candy Bar a Day!" Ain't it the truth now boys and girls?
My name is Miles Pepper. I once went to a poetry reading by the great Buk on the the North Side of Chicago. It was like a Beat Church Service of sort. When it was time to pass the basket some poor slob offered Buk a Pint, Buk of course took a big draw ( this is the stuff that image is built on right?)
At the end of the reading I took Buk aside and asked him how he made it through life? " One Candy Bar a Day!" Ain't it the truth now boys and girls?
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