occidental road
I've said this a bunch of times before, but that's one of the main dangers of my position. the suffocating presence of the _________whatevers means you can slip into the illusion there's a transcription, that the auditors will remember for you, things you said, that they have a conscience that transcends the agenda of their masters. but of course anything can be wiped away. any speech can be erased. the illusion is that anyone listening or reading now was listening or reading last month, last year, back in 78 when I mostly screamed all the time.
this will be temporary here. I'm not interested in turning this page into a rant and rage thing. I'll post this tonight and take it down tomorrow or Thursday.
but it was clear after I finished little jehovah that they would have to dig deep to combat it. that it had enough strength in it they'd respond somehow.
up in Portland back in 75 when I entered the necessary state for long periods of time, when it got holy, when I had the time and the freedom to write, I made this thing this poem called 'cunt' that was a bitter denunciation of my own hunger for public recognition and reward, it had some nice images, one I liked a lot at the time was 'you ran to the newspapers with a picture of your hands when the streets were littered with bleeding fingers" though I could never write something as melodramatic as that now.
it was a transmuting of the shrieking antagonism that is the atmosphere I move in.
later in 77 after the death trip and the ECT and the system wipe, I was down in Graton at this house down there, and suddenly, or maybe not so, those days are dim and unrecoverable and unimportant to me now, there were these pudgy little dweebs all over me, literally, consciousness raising and brainwashing and all that shit, or so it seems from here, a raid of some kind, and they had this poem all typed up to look like that one only it was called 'prick'.
no I swear to God it went just like that. it was an answer in a superficial and inferior form. a response to a misreading.
piranhas let's call them. government piranhas. they saw only the surface of that poem. so cunt became misogyny. and they had their little field day all over me.
the levels of raw suffering from things like that, that is still in me, I have seen nowhere in any literature, except in Joyce Carol Oates' Man Crazy, glancingly, and in the violently pornographic Lives of The Saints, though I know there's worse all over, it just doesn't get laid out in literature much...
this is like that now constantly. it never really stops. subsides a little, I can ignore it by cutting my consciousness back. the difference is in those days I still had hope of redemption, that someone knew the depths the control ________would sink to. that the truth would make a difference. that there was something higher and stronger than what was then running the world, what still is.
lots of people know about the creepy shit that went down in Central America, the death squads the assassinations and all that, and in South America, and Asia, and the Middle East.. but there's almost nothing here, in America. outside of the Fred Hampton story, the Panthers as a whole, in the public record.
rumors abound of course. that's the utility of crop circles. they establish a boundary of absurdity around any claims of the extraordinary and/or covert.
supposedly the United States itself was unmolested by the same swine that did so much horrible manipulative damage to the rest of the world.
some of us would disagree at least theoretically. that if they would go to those lengths that far away they would probably fight far more viciously on and for their own home territory.
and some of us would go so far as to say these things were done to us, that they had drugs and techniques that could do soft and invisible violence. create stand-alone assassinations and the stranger more insidious character assassination. drugs that would chemically induce uncontrollable rage, causing a cascade of events, the domino of internal fracture, as the real emotions, caused by the artificial stimulus, ricocheted and multiplied. the elimination of charismatic leaders, and the removal of their moral support, demoralizing from within.
most people won't even be able to see that without a cartoon map. but it's real, they did that kind of shit. and they won. really literally won. this world as it is now is theirs, they own it, they run it, they made it what it is.
so I knew two days ago when I'd finished it the poem was probably the best thing I'd done in a long time. and the ______s would attack. they have.
I'm tired and over-reacting a little, the safest response is usually to ignore it all, but I needed to vent a little.
so I did.
put here 8:47 AM
