Month: April 2016

The Imagination Assassination Of The Propagandist

Bezos

“After Reading The WAPO Coverage of Sander’s Wisconsin Victory, Does Anyone Else Feel Like Giving That CIA Tool Bezos Another Lazy Eye?” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

From Moonlight In Groundspruce Woods

Imagination Assassination of the Propagandist

Some NPR celebrity anchor was interviewed by our local radio station yesterday afternoon. I was alone in the car, choring around town. I always listen to NPR to get ahead on the national propaganda. I want to know what current events Pentagon radio deems appropriate for its doting serfs. I can easily relate our connections to Mother Russia, Mao-China, recluse North Korea. It’s the same line, albeit a more sophisticated nuance, since most of our informed public is listening from a carpeted automobile.
In Soviet Russia the news came from a bullhorn. In China from its most honorable state media. In North Korea, clubs crack skulls sounding off the daily news.
So the NPR celebrity anchor was seated in the studio a mile up the road, chatting about the grand, immense love he has for his adopted Chinese daughters, and I was on my way to a corporate warehouse for some windows and caulk, when the thought struck me, “Now is the time.”
I always pretend quietly to myself that whenever the chance arrives for an easy assassination of political celebrity, to grab at it, to save millions from the suffering which censored and misleading information wreaks upon the world. My mind tells me to take out the lobbyist, the senator, the news anchor in order to freak out the rest enough to abandon their endangering trades—to let the guilty know that not everyone is supportive of such lucrative careers in “misinformations”.  A strong, underlying fear invades the days and nights of all accomplices awaiting their turn at inevitable justice. What sane man would not choose a profession in floor sweeping over one of brainwashing, when to choose the latter eliminates the freedom to go out alone for a midnight snack? Could Rush Limbaugh enjoy his New York fine dining experience fearing that the cook and the busboy have a surefire plan to fry up his fat ass?
I have the same assassination dreams for all kinds of positions of power. The general, the chief of staff, the chief executive officer, the physics professor entering the private sector… If these very able criminal types had daily viable threats to their freedom, their lives, then I believe NPR might one day live up to its democratic acronym. There would be no more “debate” about mountain top removal. The billionaire coal god would have his throat slit at a Wendy’s drive-thru, and all the auspices of “clean coal” would shoot down the memory hole soon enough, following the next five or six mindful assassinations. Big oil would dry up fast if one of these self-proclaimed patriots of the NRA could work that automatic beauty he treasures most while the private jet is boarding. Strafing a few greedy and greasy monsters would directly result in massive fossil fuel reduction. Who can stand being filthy rich in a war zone anyway? How much should an eager oil lobbyist expect for pay when the job description includes “very probable death, very soon, and anywhere, anytime…”?

They don’t allow our right to free assembly and direct us to break down individually. So much easier to control that way. Some city cop stiff infiltrates the antiwar librarian club, and sends illegally obtained information out to headquarters. His cover is broke, the news is out, but no paid employee of the corporate media reported on it.
“This ain’t cool, man, I quit!” declares the secretary of the club. The group breaks up, and the Police Benevolent Society is free to scramble the next nonprofit group of informed citizens burdened with a Jesus conscience.
The G-20 meeting has begun and Meeshell Norris will interview the rock star French President while Susan and Bob, the minimum wagers, are tasered in the parking lot for the crime of being angry, organized, and moral.
No write-up in the media.
A man pours gasoline on himself beside a downtown Chicago off-ramp, lights a match and burns to death in protest of the invasion of Pol—I mean, Iraq (a hangable war crime for the governments of Germany, China—every nation of the world in fact besides the U.S. and Israel). NPR reports the next morning on the historical significance of Samuel Barber’s “Adagio of Strings,” conducted by Toscanini, the avowed antifascist of the wildly popular American classical music scene of 1938.

From NPR, November 4, 2006:

The year 1938 was a time of tumult. America was still recovering from the Depression and Hitler’s Germany was pushing the world towards war. Toscanini himself had only recently settled in America after fleeing fascist Italy. The importance of the broadcast performance during this time is noted by Joe Horowitz, author of “Understanding Toscanini”.

What a stirring bad-ass, that Toscanini.
So of course the guy who sets himself on fire today, protesting the American corporatists  Barack Obama, Robert Seagull, and General so and so, the fly-by-night, baby bomber from the skies, won’t even get a “boohoo” by the national propagandists.
My current problem lies with this distorted “chain of conflagration.”
Who today would chastise the memory of an Abe Sharon, the fictional German citizen of 1938, struggling with a moral conundrum?  Remember, he’s the hero who chained up a gasoline soaked Joseph Goebbels on New Year’s Day, and lit him on fire at a secret Berlin meeting of the “Jewish Society of Political Proactivity”. Nazi radio refused to cover the spectacle, but as any twelve-year-old German  knows today, it forced Hitler to privately rethink his Final Solution, fearing internal insurrection might compromise his lofty imperial ambitions.  Later that year the Night of Burning Nazis began a reign of citizen-sponsored terror that brought the Fascist regime to its racist knees.
Wow, the carnage those Nazis could have wreaked! Thank God for Abe Sharon!

The man burning up on the Chicago off-ramp wasted his poorly thought out suicide. Couldn’t he have accomplished so much more, and also gained incredible national impact, while hugging a corporate lobbied congressman? And if his progressive methods caught on to all severely depressed peoples with a conscience, who wanted more than anything to punish themselves and the rest of the cruel world with creative suicides? All of these good people, thousands nationally, perhaps a couple million worldwide, who all know they will personally become toast by the end of the year… Could they at least secure for posterity some heroic conflagrations for the international archive?
Unfortunately no.
I have a theory that the great percentage of suicides are inherently sensitive and pacifistic peoples. None would think of harming another soul. It’s the homicide-suicides that must be convinced. The demented ones who mow down innocents of their communities before firing the bullet through their own rotten craniums. Somehow we must get into these numbskulls knowledge of the real guilty parties. The people who truly deserve punishment. Those who kill and are free. The bomb makers, the drone drivers, the folks who vigorously promote and maintain the bomb-making and drone driving. The fascist community. The secure and grossly comfortable billionaires and most millionaires of our planet who push for the establishment status quo until it reaches the point of the abyss. How many millionaires do we know who vigorously protest the military-industrial-medical-educational complex? There are a few, but most likely have reached their positions of wealth and popularity via the virtue of their politics.
Michael Moore for instance insists we slaves use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house. That didn’t work too well for the majority of strong men and women on the plantations of yesteryear. Actually, it took some very big caliber artillery, radical improvements in the rifle bore, and giant armies of crazed homicide-suicide men to release a darker skinned populace from their 350 year bondage.
Human establishment avenues for change have never brought change on the scale that all life needs change.
John Brown could have begun a popular trend in those more innocent, racist times before satellite spying and retina I.D., if he hugged a drunken Jeff Davis at a D.C. bar while setting them both ablaze.
So why don’t these irate homicide-suicides ever affix the proper blame? Old buddies at work? Children at a welfare check pick-up point? Strangers at a fast food restaurant? Ugh! Man these ignorant psychopaths have got to get a grip! There are true, flesh and blood evildoers in their midst. But yet again, how to convince a psychopath of the potentially positive future for the common good whilst he struggles alone on his internal warpath?
The self-igniting suicide fails to see. Likewise, the homicide-suicide must be way too messed up in the head. One cannot rely on this hapless, pathetic mass-murderer to sustain a safe future for our children…
Hence my moral predicament with the propagandist. He is sitting in the air-conditioned studio, a wealthy, well-traveled vocal promoter of the establishment. Never has he interviewed a man or a woman of peaceful significance. As if our poor, burning Chicago suicide had not a living soul to carry his torch—to let on to a national audience the horrors that plagued the man and his country.
What forces drive the national radio personality? He talks about his giant love for his daughters and his wife, and yet Saturday morning will come again and again without revolution. Not even the tiny, personal kind, when our anchor sneaks out the news uncensored, for the love of his wonderful daughters, that his government’s helicopter gunship fired 56 rounds through the body of an Iraqi man’s beautiful, wonderful, smart, kind, gentle and caring daughter, hugging a plush stuffed pheasant while crossing the street.
He won’t tell who fired from the helicopter gunship, what very distant distance he fired from, what company manufactured the devil’s flagship, nor even what its deadly power is capable of in a country dispossessed of anything that flies beyond the single desperate arm launch capabilities of rocks and refuse.
His respectful Chinese daughters are safe at home listening to Dad never in a lifetime mention the guilty of the earth. He is one audio/visual celebrity in fifty who gets paid by the Goebbels machine to pontificate daily events that may be true, yet are profoundly unnecessary. The sophisticated sound of his voice is all the proof we need, as proud Americans, to not question the profound love he has for his precious daughters. A forty-hour work week, lunches daily in fine D.C. restaurants. Dinners too, most nights. A book tour this summer. Fly back on Sundays to cherish his incomparably special adopted daughters, to drive a Mercedes, to fly to our town’s humble airfield, and carry personally the one man circus propaganda to our middle class and middle-class wannabes. Their fifty dollar annual donations allow this daily reaffirmation of national bloody aggression—and proudly fund this Goon of Goebbels the ability to reach 100,000 of the most dangerously educated morons in the listening area. He loves, loves, loves so much his miraculous, heavenly children. He is any man just like you and me, making a living the best way he can, working hard and sober, dreaming of good, clean things, like the glorious love for his perfect babies, saved from a tortured childhood in that horrible rot of humanity China…
His broadcast power has made me a first-rate coward. Huck Finn thought himself the nastiest, low-down, vile-ist creature when he decided not to turncoat on Miss Watson’s slave Jim. I know the feeling. I am the devil’s spawn too, the rottenest, dirtiest pig of a cheap excuse for a man. The wealthy news anchor sits in a leather chair, a relaxed professional liar. A man who tells what he is told, by the powers that whip a desperate mankind to death eventually. I have gasoline in the trunk, and matches in the glove-box. I know the layout of the station like the back of my precious daughter’s hand. There’s no lock on the door. The rental car would be parked by the lake. It would be almost too easy to set him on fire…
Then I realize, after all the proud outward justification, the countless nights dreaming of assassination, that I will never become the murderer that needs to be. I am a coward through and through. The creeping fascism which threatened our country during the past two generations has settled in now for the duration. Sixty-eight million Germans let their government destroy whatever, however, whenever, and whoever it wanted.  They were just too darn safe and comfortable to ignite the guilty. The powers that were had control of all annihilation. And the propagandists faithfully reported its agenda.
Nothing has changed. Our celebrity anchor got up from his chair to shake the hand of our local, admiring interviewer. I got my windows from the corporate warehouse and spent the afternoon installing four upstairs in the rooms of my glorious daughters. And another sweet, adoring angel child was murdered by a gang of the Furher’s stormtroopers.
On Saturday morning our national reporter got word from his remarkable, intelligent daughters that U.S. troops are raping little foreign girls like themselves on location.
Our intrepid Goon of Goebbels took the news very seriously from his lucky, smart, and informed Chinese perfections, entered the studio somewhat grave and determined, and received very stately the paper outlining the 9:30 installment for the day.
An interview with the author of the book entitled, Old Jews Telling Jokes: 5,000 Years of Funny Bits and Not-So-Kosher Laughs.
So I am a grand coward of the informed. How about you, dear German of late?

New York City Anchormen Are So Stupid They Can’t Count

“The NY Times Must Think Sanders Is Talking In My Daughter’s Aquarium” 2016. Acrylic on press cleaning sheet, 17 x 7″

The painting above is for sale for 1 silver dollar.

Went to a rally this week with a friend. The huge convention room made the crowd look smaller than it was. I spent a few minutes doing some statistical math, counting out a hundred people in a pie wedge, and then multiplied that number by equal slices. Turns out I came very close. I know this because our upstate policemen aren’t as mathematically challenged as New York ones, and seem able to count. Their numbers matched mine.

Now last night Bernie Sanders packed Washington Square Park in Manhattan. There were hundreds of officials to count, probably even a few university statisticians. I watched the CBS local video clip covering the rally and the anchor gave the official police count at
11, 000. The campaign and all other news sources estimated 25-30,000 people. And I don’t think they were even counting the perimeter of people bending their ear on the way home from dinner. Nor the residents in surrounding tall buildings opening their spring night windows to get a whiff of some progressive fresh air.

So these college educated anchors and anchor affiliates do not know how to count and rely on official police estimates? Who is the latter’s “official” precinct counter? I intend to vie for his position. I have always wanted to set up studio in Manhattan. Obviously I am a better counter than their present employee. Or, I can anchor for the local network, if it would like to begin a revolutionary movement and report the news.

There were 25-30,000 people in Washington Square last night. And one very stupid New York City Police department.

 

 

I’m Not Afraid of My Own Shadow But Pretty Damn Close

 

possum1

2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

Went to my first political rally in years. Came home overwhelmingly depressed about the present moment. Not the good present moment that Zen Buddhists want you to partake in as often as possible in order to liberate oneself. Rather the present moment day thinking of my overtly ignorant countrymen. Present living. No past. No learning of the past to know the present. No time to think. All time slots filled with video, celebrity, iPhone app, Fox or CNN gotcha, sports, and the everlasting endlessness of packaging products. I find myself reading the comments sections of political news articles; I keep filling my mind with the unlearned vitriol of others. I am poisoning myself with “why”, when I know exactly why.

My mood is dark. Here is some nonfiction from a published book. Read it please. You will see why I have not sold one copy. If I was writing to literate possums, I’d be a best seller. They would want to know more about the guilty species that hit and runs with abandon.

From Moonlight In Groundspruce Woods

Heart Walk

And so come the days and nights of my Autumnal dreaming.
It is the best season. I was telling our new American friends at breakfast about the wonderful sights, sounds and smells mixing up the air of late September. Rotting apples, cool, tropospheric oxygen, the great lake Ontario turning over, the rustle of leaves, the indifference of shorebirds—rarely do the people of my town shed even a tiny old prejudice for this exhilarating season.
The same human-made facades, factoids, and dedication to “going through the motions” never interrupts these wild natural changes which have motivated all life since the axis tipped our planet into time.
We are inertia. We have stepped out of the natural cycle and therefore abandoned our right to nature and lifetime. Two hundred years ago, verily each new morning came with its own season. Weather mattered. The days’ sunlight was all light for the fuelless poor. Nature and superstition was medicine and cyclic with each new moon. Gratitude was universal, for life alone was celebration before the advent of antibiotics and the indoor toilet spoiled this species rectum rotten.
So all places in the temperate latitudes, my town included, have a natural cycle that hasn’t changed much in ten thousand revolutions around the sun. How has evolution visibly affected the raccoon’s nature since the time of Zoroaster? Different shedding pattern perhaps? Increased saliva production? Either way, the unnecessary raccoon receives no consideration from the species that matters most to all the rest, by virtue of its once in an earth time extreme negative consequences. No imaginary gods have ever possessed our power to destroy. We have gone from top of the food chain, to top of the mountain and erupted our hot lava all over the mass of life. Not a regenerative cure either. No strong comeback in sight for the multitude of existing species. Not while we are left comforting ourselves year after year. The humans are anti-fecundate. Our lava is pure poison, creating lakes and rivers of quicksilver, lead, cadmium, wet boxes of macaroni and cheese…
So for the record of the future, before the mortal gods diarrheaed up the universe good and proper, I compare the following account of the physical and intellectual activity of the man of today (who thinks he is a god), with the man of two centuries past, (who possessed a healthy respect/fear of the supernatural). Both had profound effect upon their selves, families, and the real world at large. I will argue that an abrupt change in comfort level brought about by the defeat of the supernatural has sped up evolution in the species too fast and way too far.
When in a billion years some evolutionary descendants of the bird and butterfly become literate in the ancient human languages, they shall discover this account of the fall of man, more succinct in its specificity than the gore of nuclear war, ecological catastrophe, and total economic collapse. This is the doom at a micro-level, brought to you and yours by the planet’s original sin—blind indifference to human greed and issues of entitlement.
Let it be known to all and sundry that the sun rose above the rooftops this morning and I climbed out of our big bed to tell a tale about my disconnection to the natural world. Kinney drugs and easy listening music sent from above to shower the shampoos and tampons with good feelings. Howls of the September wind gust against my west window. I will go for a walk about town today to exercise my heart. I wanted to walk west ten miles to the beautiful land we purchased on credit. Our border turkey got mauled by a wild animal last month. Maya discovered the mutilated pile as she ran over the hill to play with some of her favorite things. Wine is good for the heart they say, which is okay, because they must know that the Inca are the ancestral keepers of all Chilean grapes made in France. And just look how playful the shadows dance across the faces of the natural Inca savages, roasting cavies on a stick. Four glasses of water to deter the threat of cholera because those smart-ass Indian lazeabouts knew enough to keep the water supply higher than the cesspools.
Charles Dickens didn’t know. Friedrich Nietzsche doubted plentitudes of germs coexisting on the shitty thumb of his wipe hand. So let’s study and debate his deep thoughts. And tell sentimental tales by the firelight of all European shit-stinkers of old. Pizarro’s pee-pee probably looked just like a smoking cavy on a stick. And he’d eat it if he could, the filthy pig. Our doctors of history study ancient killing sprees of sociopaths to secure a sound future of status and Tide detergent. The scent of mountain laurel sends a current of ecstasy through the good doctor’s veins. Delusions of grandeur? Perhaps. If he could still hold a dream of historical monsters while clad in llama leather, and roasting his dinner of skinned cavy on a stick.
The walk will begin at the 1940 cement path wanting for human feet, poured lovingly by talented screen-door dreamers of a more innocent time, when some crafty Japs and Huns of the earth were getting bored with all their stuff too. The beautiful, spreading white clouds of the September sky. I hope I don’t need to shit in the bushes in fear of the watchers. I always have to go just minutes after coffee, but sometimes I fail to predict the second coming, and suffer dearly for it. Harvest time is here. I’ve pulled some red onions that I started from seed. Tobacco hangs dead and drying in my summer kitchen. I can’t wait to get chickens when we move out to our beautiful land. Them, and the internet to keep in touch with fluctuations in the manic international barometer.
I go to the NOAA Hurricane site whenever I need to be reminded of how we long for clan creation, post-natural, or man-made disaster. Although I am very lustful at 43, and racking homemade country wines, I still don’t have the power to spank my kids with a stick, knowing very well that I’ve encouraged them to trust in creatures that look like them. Even the sociopaths, who are everywhere outside of some rural communities in Africa and South America.
The September morning for a man of my height, from this spot two hundred years ago, would begin in a mild adrenaline rush to secure a food source, since an animal or man snuck up in the night and stole his leather bag. The walk that would follow would some what mimic the morning time of the wolverine or beaver watching from a safe distance as the big thing on hind legs prowled across the meadow.
The sociopath among the commoners did not yet exist, for the birth of refrigerator magnets had yet to electrify a memory bin in the brain to collect the insane knowledge of laminate flooring and the logo colors of professional football teams.
In fact, fellow sociopath, let’s just take a break from the coffee-time prose and imagine the rest of this guy’s September day—the morning, afternoon, and evening before arriving at a most difficultly obtained comfort provided by a wife and children, who, once again, praise god, were not slaughtered in their sleep by other wild men practicing survival.
Grab another cup of Ethiopian coffee, or glass of Argentinean wine, set the book down, and muse about the rise and fall of the human empire. Our innocent man of the past will make it back to his family, with just a minor bruise and a scratch. No infection will develop, and he got word that the tribe is setting up winter quarters three days’ walk away.
Hallelujah! His family is free for the time being. They shall sleep easier in the coming months, with only minor adrenaline-induced dreams of food and drink procurement.
There.
Did you feel an enormous weight lifted from your chest? Did you gaze out the window at the September sunset and imagine the purity and strength of heart in the man who has never known Cheerios? What wonders would have occurred for our race if this survivor of the forest got a sound grasp of the germ theory and modern plumbing before the advent of anything manufactured by more than a few pairs of human hands! Perhaps some ecstatic, private life out of early twentieth century, northern Norway?
No. I go on a walk espousing the virtues of Nobel dynamite. It’s good for my heart. It’s even better for apathy, and a long life at any cost. The sounds of my September morning are replete with the machinations of the industrial dynamo. One can strain an ear to hear the joys and sorrows sung by non-thermostatically controlled men of two centuries ago. A quiet hum from some friendly ghost in the quivering leaves. A diesel motor running at the stoplight. Behind the wheel sits a creature who deserved the wrath of small-pox, cholera, and bubonic plague, but got a dose of sentimental entitlement instead. It thinks someone or something should care that it had open heart surgery last December.
Earth needs a vicious Cortez of the animal or vegetable kingdom to covet the shores of our species. Some force must bang us back to the beginning or the end, whichever behooves deciduous trees the most.
For it’s either the host of them coloring a September breeze, or an army of these diesel truck idiots burning them to the ground.

The Super-Predator

Predator

“Super-Predator” 2016. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

Now is the time to cordon off all super-predators from our hearts, minds and apathy. I had it with the Bush’s last decade. Now the Clintons are creeping up on dynasty. All politics, even monumental avarice, aside, the persistent question I keep asking myself: What makes a human being so deranged as to want to be a president after being a president’s spouse?

Geeze, my wife has a sound job as a manager in a publications department of a successful company. Still, I would never want her job after she was through with it. One of us was enough, and just look at all the future status, gifts and secret service personnel guaranteed unto death! Never a dull moment.

What kind of personality shoulders that heavy dysfunction? It can’t be good.

We must be spaced-out silly to have allowed such overload psychosis to prey on the office of the presidency.

Disenfranchised In This Crappy State

“The Famous Bledsoe Painters Are First To Cast Their Vote During Arizona Reconstruction” 2016. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 23″

New York primaries coming up on the 19th. I want to vote for a progressive Vermont Senator, but I cannot because back in 2012 I changed party to vote for a progressive Texas congressman. Hard to believe that in the height of the digital age, the spirit of Boss Tweed has us all locked in an archaic and blatantly corrupt voting system.

Let me explain for those who do not reside in the “We adore empire” state of New York.

No person can vote outside of registered party for primary elections. I understand that the two parties are very private. For instance,  my state assemblyman is not a right wing American flag pin wearing Jesus worshiper as the newspaper wants you to believe. He likes to snort little piles of cocaine at his private get-togethers, and then assumes that news doesn’t travel outside his ugly lawyer orgies.

I would have had to change party affiliation last October to qualify as democrat in this April’s primary. A six month head start! For whom? I could tweet my party affiliation in a second. Of course then serious progressive candidates would win elections, and the United States might gradually develop into a happy pro-Denmark nation, and not a crazed lot of television psychopaths with sugar cereal spilling out onto the floor.

This is not a Republic—never was it a democracy. In New York, the election process is rigged. Therefore my governor, and the majority of senators and assemblymen are criminal. They perpetuate a con as if there is nothing rotten going on in Denmark. Lucky for them, they are also super delegates…

Sure, I get to vote, but not for the candidate I desire. So here in New York State of bananas I will join the other side and write-in my cocaine assemblyman—just for fits and wiggles.

arizonareconstruction