Capillary Reaction Serialization #7 is a Ghost Story

The Boar Thinks Benzene Poisoning is Funny

“The Boar Thinks Benzene Poisonong Is Funny” 2012. Acrylic on panel, 18 x 14″

France Paintings

These paintings were made during a brief residency in Southwestern France. There was a sixth, a trout “swimming joyfully in a river pool of toluene paint thinner”, that was bought last year at a show in Cooperstown. In America a purchaser of a trout can be a fish lover and a gas drilling supporter at the same time. Here it is not necessary to connect art with conscience. Hence the ridiculous Croesus wealth-building of perverts like Jeff Koons and Lady Gaga.
I do not speak or write in the French language. These translations are pathetic, but that’s okay because the fauna of France do not speak French either. But they are inclined to chew off our arms for the audacious move by the bad (rotten) apples among us who are encroaching upon their property rights.
These paintings and more aim to stop the hydrofracking industry from invading our beautiful upstate New York countryside. A tough front to form indeed. My local public radio station, WRVO, at the behest of fracking millionaires, is telling us to “think about it”. That is, accept the reality that propaganda is king, even among our supposed publicly funded institutions.
I had a nice time painting in France. For eight days I was hounded by an angry ghost in a 13th century bastide. It was late October and it drove me to bed down in the unheated studio. To be polite I told my hostess that I was keeping myself in a restless state to stimulate creativity. No. I was terrified, painting every waking moment while watching my back. Beside a farmer’s fallow field, I took one long walk down a Roman road, and visited a castle on the last day of my trip.

The Existential Worker Hornet Thinks It Might Prefer Euthanasia By Methane Gas

“The Existential Worker Hornet Thinks It Might Prefer Euthanasia By Methane Gas” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Trout Swims Joyously in a River Pool of Toluene Paint Thinner

“The Trout Swims Joyfully in a River Pool of Toluene Paint Thinner” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″


The Roe Deer Wants Cheese to Taste Like Vanadium Curd

“The Roe Deer Wants Cheese to taste Like Vanadium Curd” 20112. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Stone Marten Waits at the Pipe Fitting For a Sip of Napthalene

“The Stone Marten Waits at the Pipe Fitting for a Sip of Naphthalene” 2012. Acrylic on wood panel, 14 x 18″

The Slow Worm Hopes a Garden Soaked in Formaldehyde Will Bring Longevity

“The Slow Worm Hopes a Garden Soaked in Formaldehyde Will Bring Longevity” 2012/ Acrylic on wood panel, 18 x 14″

This last one has a translation error most likely because the ghost was breathing its hot 14th century bad breath down the back of my neck…




Installment #6 of Capillary Reaction To Record the Joys of Naphthalene for my District Congressperson


“Primary Fast Frack With White and Black” 2011. Acrylic on (3) paper, 30 x 16″


2014. Acrylic on wood panels, (6) 6 x 6″

First the Sun and Then the Moon Waxes Poetic The Radium-266 Superfly

I learn something new each time I research the side effects of hydrofracking:
Radium-266 is bad for humans, but inspiring beyond words to its namesake mutant species “superfly”. All day and night the superfly sings lustily of days to come and gone by—the willow that stretched to the stars and cracked with the first big wind, the last squirrel to pack soil over a nut, pick its head up to the sun, and cough up a blood clot, the dreams of a mate to fly with over the lake counting the floating fish in the moonlight… The superfly is a poet and a visionary. He sleeps subterranean for seven years subsisting in a bath of charged radium ions. Then at pre-dawn on midsummer night he rises with the sun to sing the song of the world and find a mate to cuddle up with for the next long radioactive sleep.
It wasn’t enough to have a hundred toxic chemicals bubbling in a murky frack pool, so we opted for mining some well-known carcinogenics too.
With a three-year lease, Landowner Ted can now afford an F350 run on natural gas, a tiller with its own choke, and cash payments for his grandson’s chemotherapy.
Also, unfortunately, for the next 16,000 years, Landowner Ted’s descendants cannot step outside without a mosquito netting cage. The superflies’ bite is instant death, and no pesticide can kill it.

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 16 x 20″

It’s About Water You Suicidal Turtles! Water!

Opening night in Hamilton is over. I am freed up to continue amassing the first local environment painting exhibition that will be the last ever necessary. All adults of earth shall pass through the gallery thinking, “What has happened?” and “Why was I not meditating like an old ghost after having babies and teaching them the Golden Rule”?
I am convinced that, in the West anyway, art and artist must become the moral bullhorn to check humanity’s penchant for cardinal sin. I remember back during the Iraq “war” when I wrote to 40 local ministers and priests chastising them for being scared little puppies to their congregations. It seemed not one of them had the guts to outwardly protest the slaughter. The SUV’s kept driving in on Sunday mornings to hear of their personal greatness—the holy men had bills to pay, bell towers to repair at exorbitant union wages. Either way, protest or not, there would be many more crimes committed by the lost sheep, so keep quiet and share the spoils. I scolded them with the knowledge of how the church became the Hummer became the church. Not one response. Of course I never supplied a return address (I was an artist not a prophet).
Environmental disaster, like war, is not a concern to the corporate God men and women. Heaven is hard work. Few have time to think about earth, water, and air anymore. A good economy will refurbish the church, and while so many are frantically busy applying themselves to bloating the coffers (by all means), little artists paint pictures hand-slapping the bad men, who include even ministers and priests!

Capillary Reaction #4 Installment in Year and a Half Long Attempt To Replace Seat of Congressman With My Seat


2013. Acrylic on (5) 6 x 6″ wood panels

John Katko, New York’s 24th District U.S. Congressional Representative, thinks that fracking our land is an a-okay prospect and glorious economic opportunity for rural, landowning New Yorkers. So is drinking HCL if dissolved human flesh and bone was a marketable commodity. And believe me, bottles of it would be on supermarket shelves tomorrow if this were so. I think John likes money and dreams of reelection more than the biological systems of New York’s toddlers and infants. During the campaign I will challenge John to a month-long tour of Pennsylvania, Oklahoma, and North Dakota fracking country where his water can only be drunk from residences within 300 yards of a frack well. If he isn’t green or blue by month’s end, I will cease to use fracking as a campaign issue.

It’s Alimentary My Dear Manslaughterer

In with the bad, out with what used to be bad, but is better now than what stayed in. Proof that the Beatle’s song “Helter Skelter” was bad medicine. Charles Manson took it in innocently enough, not knowing how it would mix things up inside, jive with his homicidal entitlement dreams, and be released into the wild. So he formed a cult and planned gruesome parties.
I believe that what makes a crazed Manson character must lie dormant in each and every one of us. We are guilty of abusing our own small powers sometimes. When power becomes absolute, whether expressed as micro from a stinky, run-down homicidal maniac’s ranch in Death Valley, or macro, by the state mandate from a Mao Zedong or Andrew Cuomo, it will corrupt absolutely. We are familiar with the popular phrase. We repeat it at parties, yet at election time, still vote for either party in a one party-pretending to be two party-system. The one, true party is made up of the corporitos. They party all summer long on the private beaches of Lake Superior. In Oswego at late summer, one can get a glimpse of their yacht captains battening down the hatches before a morning intercoastal departure to Florida. A month later they anchor their master’s ships for many warm winter parties beneath Miami moons.
You wouldn’t give Charles Manson the power to determine the potential fate of an entire people’s water supply for profit. Even if it would employ all the violent LSD soaked hippies on earth. What has Andrew Cuomo written on his “saint” wall to have you assume that he is looking out for your best interests? Who is your state senator and assemblyperson? Are any of them hobbyist nutritionists, chemicals scientists, structural engineers, mothers and fathers who would struggle to afford a year’s supply of home-delivered spring water?
The man in the painting knows the science. It’s alimentary dear Watson. If you drink benzene, you suffer benzene. What might not be so obvious is that your representative in power would trade your physical well being for a small profit if a corporito told him to.

2015. Acrylic on canvas, 36 x 36″

Think About It

The fact that a 48 year old man, simple, shy and nearly as honest as his neighbor ever was, feels the need to take up what the elites of my state are claiming is a cause célebre over the pros and cons of chemically infecting our water supply, is a sign of the black SUV times.
Even our local “public” radio is in on the money game, selling advertising to the gas men who espouse child leukemia as a justifiable result of fake farmer Fred’s purchase of a speed boat to play with while the subsidized high fructose corn syrup grows tall.
The governor is corrupt, his friends all greed punks, his girlfriend a very bad human being, and not even a good cook, really. Phenol crab cakes. A mixed green salad washed in naphthalene. A glass of formaldehyde Finger Lakes wine delivered to her door by the sleazy state senator who dreams paper money is happiness.
It amazes me that these lawyer-cowards are not hanging from a stick, by a thread, over a frack pool bubbling with mass community rage.
Stanley Milgram would have nodded his head while the people of the village turn the voltage up on their own screaming children.
So I take up paint and mix in what I think is the second most audacious power grab ever made by human beings. The first being the advent of probable nuclear annihilation by future lawyer-cowards. My neighbors watch and listen to the fake debate and wait to judge which side the hippies fall on. They all love CSN, and even Neil Young before he broke away and wrote the poetry of a grown-up. They just don’t appreciate hippies bearing a conscience. All are waiting for the lawyer-cowards to set up the tent of the crazy circus debate on hydrofracking. And established tools like my local public radio people perpetuate the power grab with credit card payment glee. They don’t need to be millionaires. They all just want to look like one.


“Fissures!” 2014. Acrylic on canvas, 24 x 18″

Fissures Make Colorful Carcinogens, Yes?

A self-explanatory painting. Chemicals can be colorful. They are sent into the earth under high pressure. They come back up and float in a pool. That’s the way the gas men want it to be understood. Innocuous, maybe even slightly normal, and downright grand if it provides jobs to the job hungry.
Atmospheric temperatures must have stabilized overnight. No longer news worthy. Nobody is talking about it. Huzzah! Tomorrows are purified for our progeny!
No, not really. But that is how the established 4th estate expects us to think.
Headlines from NPR would have us assume that global warming just stopped, and that summer’s upstart is warm breeze and strawberries and wild fauna nesting soundly in the tall grass, swimming peacefully in pure and wild, wet waters, nibbling moist berries off the endless lush produce of mother earth…
NPR is government propaganda. Someone at the top of their machine is having lunch with Goebbels.
We could stop to get our bearings, reassess our dependencies, head into the future with strong backs and determination, but will not move a millimeter until our dollar takes its final nose dive into oblivion.
Still, with minimal effort we can break out of surface denial by making atmosphere talk our first attempt at every conversation. We could become mindful once again and use our cleanliness and good health and swell science to imitate 14th century Japanese royalty. We could write poetry, take day walks, stab to death the Carnegie Steel and Rockefeller Oil earth-hating drive-about we depend on more than our neighbors and families. We could naturalize our lives with creative job creation. That means we choose our local economies and dress them to our own survival tastes. Oil execs might have to be tortured gently. Fracking giants could have their heads politely lopped off. Military brass would get the picture after a sound fragging by its own sentient cannon fodder.
These punishing days will come. What’s unbelievable is that the majority of intelligent human beings refuse to articulate this with any regular pattern.
Geeze, even without a blog to help clear her fuzzier dreams, the woolly mammoth got smitten with bright yellow buttercups still digesting.
So, carpe diem, verdad?
Yes, of course. But let’s do it with some class. Let us witness some poetry crawl out of this Walmart funk hole we’ve born ourselves into. Use our liberal educations—read what the dead dogs wrote to become living lions once again. Don’t let the consumer culture barons fool you any longer. The woolly mammoth was a blind consumer too. What was lost in non-acquisition of petroleum plastics, she made up for a thousand times by expressing her true nature.
Express your true nature. Become who you were before you were born. Focus your dreams toward creative survival. Yes, even with the weekly trade off of coins for Scott Tissue paper. Doom should be the only preoccupation of any species’ grown-up. Even the crazed mega-neuronopolis doom of the human being king.

The Finality of Three Paintings on a Strange Yesterday, and a Fourth today, to Wrap it Up


Two possible titles: “Donald Trump has Made his Decision. Now Let Him Enforce It!”, or “Stop Using the Master’s Freakin” Tools, Fools!” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″

Every few weeks I hit a low. I do not think I am bipolar any more than the next failed painter trapped inside a frozen, northern woe-box—I do believe that all inhabitants of industrialized nations suffer waves of confusion from time to time, whether or not they partake in a private economy bearing cyclical jags of elation and self-doubt. I even support and maintain a hypothesis that men have hormonal periods. Irritable Man Syndrome for some (the pick-up truck testosterone drinking cup type), or those artists like me who deal as loving butlers to the women in the household and suffer, what I believe, a hormonal derangement caused by the cross-gender dormitory effect. Science only needs to prove the theory. And to boot, last night was a full moon or close.
So the day began in heavy angst.
Propaganda radio informed me early on that Standing Rock is going to be slippery oil rock soon, or so everybody thinks. Everybody thinks that a sleazy billionaire will get his spoiled child way in the end. “Executive order” is the line, and the president and his pretend loyal “Army Core of Engineers” (the latter more than likely a euphemism for “recent high school grads with rulers”) have declared that business interests (if significantly dressed up in its moolah bag finery) trumps culture and ways of tradition always. Just what I would expect to hear from a rich pretend noble. What boils my blood is the expected response from thousands of disaffected, propagandized human automatons, who gleefully hand over unlearned and undeserved power to the wrong people. Then an unlearned debate ensues. Some rural nitwit neighbor of mine argues with an urban nitwit neighbor of mine, and the two opinions nitwittedly offered by nitwits to nitwits, constitute reality by a nation of nitwits fueled by nitwit news. And the whole manner is unnecessary to the one brave Sioux descendant who actually keeps the ancient soil in his heart and soul, and also has heard, or even read, a bit of history not told by the established outsider nitwit.
He destroys the problem.
Let the President enforce his “order”. If it’s a culture worth keeping (and I know that it is, then the culture as a nation will do what it must to protect itself. Just stop acting like slaves to nitwits, nitwits! Sabotage now!
Oh, that image didn’t win me many “likes” on social media. So friends and friends of friends, continue to protest and politicize like car payment Gandhi’s with smartphones. Even that bozo thought he did a grand thing. Freed India. To do what? Make an entire earth untouchable with threat of some nifty fisson-fusion fireworks?
Nationalism is always ugly, but nitwit nationalism kills. It kills an awful lot of people eventually. Mahatma should have known this, but the poor sap was trained as a lawyer, not a poet. Lawyers know how to say “boots on the ground” over and over, and the nitwits lap it up and sanction state-sponsored terrorism. The lawyer Gandhi, knowing his audience, dressed down for the occasion, fasted when necessary, led a nation to nationalism, and began India’s own state-sponsored terrorism—a glorious nuclear stockpile of its very own. Praise Shiva.
Onto the second painting…
 “If I am Ever Going to be a Great Living Painter, Then All the Young, Talented Ones Must Take a Fast Leap off a Tall Building” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
A bit of whimsy to disguise a solid truth about my psyche.
I am an envious tool.
And that didn’t help my mood one bit, but it did supply enough self-deprecation juice to nourish the next, and final painting for the day,
“This Bird Has Got the Disease of Conceit” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22″
So true.
You know, all I ever dreamed, since delving into a lifetime of mixing words and colors, was the ability to make a living, receiving no more pay than a dishwasher’s wages. I used to be a dishwasher, in my twenties, before getting promoted to cook and then father, and then father-husband feeler. I never imagined then, or today, that I would ever make a profit from creative work. The angst is gone now, with the moon yanking on some poor Australian’s psyche, and I am feeling better. As some of my friends have told me, and I believe it more and more each day, that when it comes to making a profit, Mr. Throop is his own worst enemy.
And then the birds visited me this morning, as reminder. Which birds?
“This is What my Soul Looks Like When the Little Birds of Profit Fly By” 2017. Acrylic on paper, 15 x 22

President Kill and His Roast Turkey


2013. Acrylic on press-cleaning sheet, 7 x 15″

Wow. I just heard Benjamin Ferencz, a 97 year old man, speak on NPR about his experience at Nuremberg as a prosecutor. Eloquent. Articulate. Shaming in under four minutes these propagandists that lock us up in our insides day after day. NPR is the only talk-radio available that isn’t outright hate and blame politics, and I only listen to it because corporate commercial radio is disgusting, and I often get lonely in my carpeted projectile, seeking the human sounds.

The enemies are in charge. That is national politics in a nutshell. You, dear reader, unless Syrian or a close second, have never woke up with a thought of Syria until your weak government and its propaganda boot-lickers told you to think about it. And that was just because they began a campaign to mutilate its children. There are no proportions in death! Your leaders, every single one of them, are the enemies of peace, and all that you hold dear. They are puppets to a system none of us understands or trusts. But a system that kills—not at all like a Final Solution, no. Our leaders and their little pretend soldier boys kill from the sky, like Hitler would if he possessed drone technology. Like Roosevelt did, and would again and again, whenever poor, geographically unlucky, peoples got in the way of his nightly fireside bourbon and pie.

I hate power because it clears cowards of murder. Any man or woman who kills for a system is suspect. And any soldier of any nation who has ever harmed a non-soldier is the most base and decrepit human being ever to inhale and exhale life. Why? Because it is abuse of power on a micro level, with few watching, and nothing to be gained. Absolute cowardice!

NPR and like apologists of these criminals and their crimes are guilty Joe Goebbels’. Guilty every day, just like any German, circa 1943, who didn’t ram a pike through a Nazi face.

From the “interview”:

How has it affected the International Criminal Court that the United States is not a member of it?

The United States is a great democracy. When World War II was over, Americans were loved everywhere. They kissed me and hugged me and everybody loved the Americans. Not today, not today. Because now they say the Americans, look, they don’t want to go onto the court. It’s not the Americans. It’s a small minority group, and you need two-thirds of the Senate to ratify a treaty which created these courts. You can’t get two-thirds because you’re always a few guys from the south*. Entitled to their opinion, entitled to respect, but we don’t have to be guided by backward-looking thinking.

You’ve hit here on a great paradox because you’ve made it clear that you think that war is terrible.

War is hell. It’s not terrible. It’s awful. And in addition to being cruel and mean and rotten, it’s stupid, because look at what we do now. We take young people, if the heads of state can’t agree, you send young people to kill other young people they don’t even know, who may never have harmed them or anybody else, and they get tired of killing them and then they stop and each side declares victory, rests for a while, and they go back again and they start killing each other again.

You’re getting me wound up, and I feel very strongly about it.

I have boiled everything down into a slogan: Law not war. Three words. If you could do that, how you would change the world. You’d save billions of dollars every day to be able to take care of the students who can’t pay their tuition, take care of the refugees who don’t have homes.

And the next question is, how do you do it? I have also three words: Never give up. And that’s what I’m doing. And all I can do as an old man [is] sit here in a little bungalow in Florida and urge the world to come to its senses. Good luck, world.

* “…A few guys from the south

Maybe Benjamin and Ron are kindred spirits…

The Civil War and Its Aftermath Turned the People of My Country Into Retarded Ogres

1861 should be remembered as Confederate Independence Year. More good for the earth would have come from their temporary, destitute freedom. Less species would have suffered worldwide. Global warming might have slowed, and my nation’s people would have had the opportunity to progress over time into a more humble, less warlike mob of drugged lab rats.
The Confederation wanted out of creeping industrial fascism. An agrarian economy with cash crops cotton, tobacco and procreating slaves could support itself, at least for a decade or two before the procreating slaves, overwhelming in number, rose up and slaughtered their oppressors. The dark skins would have a window of opportunity of a decade or two before the light skins could develop their own industrial fascism. Meanwhile, fruits of the bell’s kitchen garden would not trade well for the metal things needed to quell an overwhelming rebellion. Snotty okra for Gatling guns? He-he. No way.
So the slow, independent South strolling into the 20th century would either be experiencing its own civil war of rakes and hoes and rotten persimmon bombardments, or the new Haiti would have already instituted its Tim Dove laws. Jeff Davis would be shining shoes for a Nat Turner penny outside Natchez City Hall. Either way, the old Southern white way would have got its just desserts without the help of Northern bankers, industrialists, and multiple farmer boy cannon fodder.
And the world would have been better off by far without the post Civil War Military/Media/Medical/Educational Industrial complex.
I imagine all the good and bad of Northern society at best would have developed into a modern day Netherlands, or for worse, a fascist Germany or Italy, long ago defeated by pretend morally superior nations without an atomic bomb.
Today we aren’t so lucky. The South won. Its leaders waited the prescribed ten to fifteen years of Reconstruction, traded their bull whips in for lynch ropes, and took back Congressional seats by pious campaigns of fear and force. Now the white elite of the South, who were half to blame for the carnage of the 1860’s, and all to blame for slave quarters, sat themselves in tall-back leather chairs, scheming,
“We’re gonna get our revenge on Boston and New York if we have to legislate against the negro and the North for all of Hell’s eternity.”
And they are.
So why did the North fight to the death to keep the South unionized?
Beats me.
Northern industry never invested much of its wealth in quaint Southern towns of violent racial pride. So it had nothing to lose and much to gain with a southern departure. New York already had enough destitute West African and Irish-Italian slaves to stuff into their air-challenged factories. What wealth the South enjoyed beyond cotton and tobacco was trickle down from Northern prosperity. Picturesque, Southern genial society was, and is, a ward of the Federal system. A powerful welfare culture. The result was an illiterate, brutal post Civil War generation, very poor and very bored.
Many joined the military. Many invaded the West. Washington’s justifications for heinous acts of the time, whether against the Sioux, African or Philipino, were made in a large part by defeated peoples with a tremendous axe to grind. Their influence grew and grew.
Today, people of the Netherlands are more tall, robust and gay than the saturated-fatty folk of the U.S.A. Their south is tulips and pot cafés. Their North is tulips and pot cafés. The majority supports sustainable methods of agriculture, pure juice drinks, pregnant mothers, and joining together to ride bicycles to save the earth (even with the knowledge that their near future is an undersea Atlantis).
In the Netherlands it is elementary that since the famous draw at Appomattox Courthouse, the U.S. Southern military elite pushed its Northern brethren to adopt Jerry Falwell’s Bible as Army field manual. Today the Pentagon is run mainly by children of an angry God. General babies, a lá Stonewall Jackson. They are fearful, racist, faux-christian bullies with rage issues, put in charge of nuclear silos and submarines.
The Netherlands knows about the hijacking of America by its military. All of earth’s leaders do. For example, how else to explain why an invasion of sovereign nations a half a world away (Iraq, Afghanistan) was not countered by world war?
Because the world’s leaders know damn well who has dominion over the earth. A five minute conventional war would not be tolerated by the Joint Chiefs of Staff.
Soldier to soldier combat died long before Wilbur and Orville made their contribution to mammal extinction. “Killing babies from a very safe distance,” has been the U.S. military motto ever since General Sherman concluded that different colored peoples of any nation or tribe would fight to the death to keep their fair share of tillable earth. Today this modern industrial military is American just like apple pie and picking off an old person from a mile away. Its generals, via the gestures of a puppet government in Washington, have made it very clear to the rest of the world that any brave, armed resistance from other capable nations will result in nuclear Armageddon. Immediate annihilation of all the tulips in Amsterdam.
In the Netherlands, people are well aware of the Neo-Nazis holding the earth hostage. And they know how this came to be.
In 1861 Northern Christians in charge of weapon’s factories, sympathized with influential abolitionist movements. Southern Christians whipped black people like wild dogs and justified it with the teachings of a sadistic God. Both the North and South were reading the same editions of the New Testament which explained ambiguously how to deal with enslaved families of a different color. They got into a ferocious religious battle. The abolitionist God was victorious, although still very racist, and got so stupid forgiving to allow his ugly side equal membership into heaven’s situation room.
Wars around the world, the tidying up of native peoples and paving of their lands, the leveling of California, draining of the Colorado, the new construction of football stadiums and the re-reconstruction of McDonalds on the same exact spot of soil, among other industrial insanities, has finally lit the fuse of earth’s nervous breakdown. Along with the eager help of nuke-ready warmongers, Mother Earth is set up nicely to eliminate 75% of her species.
This scenario could happen under the rule of any modern, hell-bent psychopathic culture. It’s just that doom might have been postponed if the North left the South alone, to justifiably be murdered in its sleep by any desperate lobby with a conscience.
So merely a hundred and fifty years later, moments after a mass invasion of a very weak Iraq, slaughtering millions of living creatures, with the ignition of flora and fauna to make a sand dune Jehovah wet his pants from fear, the United States president was asked by a staged reporter if he trusted his faith at this trying time of exploding to pieces other people’s babies.
In the Netherlands the question would not be about a genocidal leader’s faux-faith in a fighter pilot God, but rather how to compost his drawn and quartered body properly in a flood plain. So not to toxify the tulips you know.
It is the Old South that has usurped political action in America. It has got its revenge. The Confederacy is ringmaster of this super silly circus nation, and all earthlings suffer dearly for it.

Dear Government Media—With All This Suffering In the World, Can I Please Stop Giving A Crap About Suicidal Astronauts?


2016. Acrylic on canvas, 11 x 14″

Posted from several months back… Reposting today because I am sick of government/media propaganda. Now that both leading Presidential candidates have loosely talked about nuclear weapons and their use, which translates as threatening all of life with very real (not pretend iPhone) power, and therefore admitting to premeditated mass murder, I have taken the proverbial gloves off and challenged each to a thumb wrestle. I shall easily defeat teeny-fingered Trump, yet I still need to assess Clinton’s opposable, which at last account was thirty inches into Kissinger, and threatening to tickle his duodenum…

It’s time to come down hard on the people of this nation. All of the post-pubescent ones anyway. Those who believe that any politician anywhere takes on the Jesus problems that all mid-level spiritualists  burden themselves with on an hourly basis. Politically, we, the dumb pick-up truck or hybrid car coolies of inertia, deserve exactly what we get since atrocious food supplements like Apple Jacks® first found their home on cereal shelves across America.

Donald Trump rises to presidential possibilities because people who pretend to be liberal or conservative in America are still allowed to procreate, and worse still, raise their offspring. As adults we repeat the stupidest run-on sentences sometimes. Such as, “I am all for no smoking in restaurants, but I think our government should make trade deals with China because Sam Walton cared a great deal for the less fortunate even if his bones should be dug up and ground into a dust and the dust smeared on the lips of a cross-dressing rear admiral who floats his greasy fat arse around all day and night on top of a nuclear warhead, ready to annihilate life because some dandruff-flaked old white or wanna be white colonial man ordered him to”.

Phonies say stupid things like that all the time.

All the time.

How about this grammatically correct one? “Life is suffering”. You would never know it from the way the Dalai Lama jet plane puddle jumps from one stage to the next. Like Mick Jagger dressed down with less obvious greed, but a similar desperate desire to be loved and craved, and a subsidized private cook supper every night for the rest of his life.

Grow up! Or grow down, you freakin’ phony clowns. Life is not suffering. Fortunate, healthy children don’t suffer unless their parents hate them enough to pick a favorite for president.

Joe in North Carolina drives a truck for septic removal. His dad ain’t a soft bigot like him, no; Joe senior is downright klu-kluxed—both of ’em wanna vote for President cause Trump’s a New York City Billionaire. Makes sense to me, but never to 12 year-olds because America has reached this unprecedented stage of total adult degeneracy. This morning outside Wilmington many, many houses are floating away because Trump is gonna pour America a great big Lake Agassiz while he flies in his mother’s arse jumbo jet eight miles high, laugh, laugh, laughing at all the bloating and floating finger-lip gibberers who voted for him.

Whoosh! Whoa! A near miss in the sky. The Dalai Lama was escaping too, hightailin’ it back to Lhasa where the oceans have not reached… yet.

Stop your snickering old Sanders and new Clinton supporters. Sure we have the collective power to stop the clouds from warming, or at best attach a giant vacuum hose into outer space and suck out carbon, while simultaneously feeding and educating everyone on earth and getting cheap insulin for the babies we stuff with poison-in-a-box brought to you by Business As Usual, Inc. God forbid we save ourselves from annihilation by enforcing the non-existence of nuclear weapon technology. We can’t even legislate against plastic grocery bags! It would take a few screw drivers to dismantle thermonuclear death for all of earth’s species. Screwdrivers! So, we’re going to tax billionaires to halt global warming— nature’s normal reaction to humanities’ lust for the path of least resistance, which is exactly how floating water would behave if it could stuff its mouth all night long with pizza and wings from Dominoes®. Why not? Let’s halt atmospheric warming with money. Always money! Fight global catastrophe with arbitrary coinage. What is money? It is metal and paper. It’s earth, for crying out loud! Oh, I get it! We’re gonna save earth with earth. As if earth gets no say in the matter. Brilliant lunatic human logic.

All vanities are insane. However, the narcissistic baby boomers and their spawn need to be locked up now. Me and you. Right now. Children, cuff us. The baby-boomers got us into this mess and we (present-day, child-raising adults) have kept humanity bogged down in the slime, lapping up every last grocery like voracious bacteria.

Is there a solution in this rant, oh ranting Ron? Please hurry, we all have delusional promises to keep.

Yes, but unfortunately for humans, it’s not a human one… Still, very acceptable among non-human populations. A human being wrote it out in picture poetry a generation or two ago. Here it is.

“O take heart, my brothers. Even now… with every leader & every resource & every strategy of every nation on Earth arrayed against Her—Even now, O even now, my brothers, Life is in no danger of losing the argument!—For after all …. (as will be shown) She has only to change the subject.” —Kenneth Patchen




No Thing Like Kid Leukemia To Kill A Kickin’ Beer Buzz, Eh Rural Roy?


2011. Acrylic on paper, 17 x 25″

From: Capillary Reaction: Hydrofracking and Irrevocable Loss

More often than not, I don’t think people do the right thing for their children, nieces, nephews, second cousins, etc. We like to think that we do, but no, not really. For instance, every time we let a child into a car, and forgo the crash helmet, we have given up the right to proclaim we always have their best safety in mind. It’s easy to pretend that Johnny and Sue look cool and comfortable in a carpeted projectile set at a cruising speed of 70 mph, among a hundred other luxury projectiles. However, the science is clear. A kid with a crash helmet on will survive more accidents than one without. Likewise, just making a concerted effort to avoid unnecessary trips to the mall, or pediatrician who, because insurance companies told her to, refuses to come to your child’s bedside when the latter is exhausted with double pneumonia. Similarly, car manufacturers could be mandated to fit all automobiles with steel roll cages. 77% less fatalities on the road coupled with helmet wearing required by law. We could have the safest highways on earth by next year with laws passed for the betterment of society and not the institutional sleazy squeeze off overhead to make a profit.
This is how I often see the good and bad of the world—through the eyes of an omnipotent care provider. I wish I had the ultimate safety control over earth’s children. Who wouldn’t? War would end. Nuclear weapons would be dismantled and stuffed back up the crack of any nation’s nincompoop stronghold that ever thought having them was a bright idea. Pharmaceutical companies would no longer need the lure of Croesus profit to discover helpful medicines; men and women of science would have the highest honor among populations, and not need to be told by a greedy death administrator where to focus their attention. The successes of agronomists would be awarded at ceremonies broadcast prime time. For Christ’s sake, they fed the world didn’t they? Beats having a public sex change on TV. NASA would be stripped of all its Luke Skywalker Star Wars machines, and fitted with new admirable words to replace the most wasteful acronym in the history of mankind. National Altruistic Scientists Association, or something like that, and the moon remains a lit up dead thing to look at in the night sky. Finally, I would give companies like Exxon-Mobil and Range Resources thirty days to discover and implement renewable alternative energy makers under the threat of cutting each member of their board of directors (and all their unhelmeted limo drivers) in half.
Ho hum. Just wistful dreaming.
The girl in the painting is green from vanadium splashes as she dances through the sprinkler atop the Marcellus Shale on a hot summer day. Her Dad sold Range Resources the right to douse her with carcinogens, because he was told by a qualified spokesperson with no scientific research skills that fracking was safe, don’t worry, here’s a hundred grand. Dad was glad. Paid off the mortgage and the truck. The money got spent, and most unfortunately, his daughter’s natural bone development too.
All that fast money joy, and now this downer? Buzz kill! Oh well, nothing he can do about it now except move.
“For Christ’s sake, Suzy, leave the damn helmet in the yard! Get in the car. We gots to go”