I bet Iris Murdoch had fun!

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!

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.

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!

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!

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 !

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.