Ideology
A Haughty Proposition
And angrily I cried: “Perdition!
Up from out of in under there!”
Preposition, proposition. Potato potato. Homophones. Headphones. The term ideology originates from French idéologie, itself deriving from combining Greek: idéā (ἰδέα, ‘notion, pattern’; close to the Lockean sense of idea) and -logíā (-λογῐ́ᾱ, ‘the study of’). All men are created equal. What of/ by/ for? We are all mortal. Some of us are born a few decades apart. We, the living, are created equal. Other than that, it’s luck of the draw, fucker. Study of ideas is not exactly the same as repeating them. But you get the idea, maybe.
Some fool just smacked some other fool on TV. Now what. Civil War, maybe. It does not seem that the cause we so nobly advanced has advanced far enough over Cemetery Ridge. Because the clown laughed about raw dog bald-head wife. And somebody was disrespecting somebody’s shit. Then we get lost in the costumes and choreography. Not to mention the music. To say nothing of the dog. The ballet hit Nelson in the chest and tore a small hole in the heart, mortally wounding the large man. Nobody said shit. Guess why.
Communists and Capitalists
To find such haven; but God kept it green.
Long rest! with belt, and bayonet, and canteen.
Henry waited for the boat to land. He knew the James, and the Onondaga people… not the ironclad. We have one thing further to say, and that is We heartily recommend Union and a Good Agreement between you our Brethren. Now Tom delivered the gold. Soon it will be on its way to City Point where can do some good. Inventing a means of production is hard. So is seizing them. Buying them is easer… for now.
Sheridan is a crazy asshole… but Jubal is safe in Lynchburg. Carl has connections. Tredegar ironworks and Virginia State Armory have no iron. It is the workers who have value. They carry it with them like precious pearls… locked inside their hearts, visible only to ones who have the sight and it’s only a seed, nurtured like a baby- maintained like a machine. Our fair Daisy is doing the same in Harrisburg, and Father Abraham is gone.
“Poor fellow,” he mused, “I wish I could have given him this beautiful moon.”
Hypnagogia
Night Shade
We are dragons. We are real because our spirit lives forever. That’s what they say. We are singing tonight because this night is not like all other nights. Passover. Six thousand years ago and it probably never happened. What is important is that we remember the story. Why? Flip flop and fly. Chicken thigh. Hand angel of death over to the moon. You don’t have to believe it. Prints of Egypt lead all the way back to Butte fork where they keep the kitty food. Chopped liver us from bondage. To wonder in the dessert. We got these fifteen- uh- ten. Ten Commandments.
This is great! You have done a great service for the kids. Maybe the ones who can connect people, events and ideas. Stuart Brand says one way to avoid competition is to invent. Not that competition is bad. As long as it remains a game and not a war, competition is fine. Healthy, even. Charlie Poole says: If you spend every cent you can live out in a tent It’s moving day. Great War. Great Depression. Great Grandparents. MOVE is not an acronym. WELL maybe. Difference between “well, move!” and “move well.” Fighting words: the difference between a mock and a taunt. The best mocks are never felt by the target. Taunts are supposed to be.
Hormonal neurotransmitters: in the air, water, soil, etc. Consequently, our emotions are dialed up to eleven like the Spinal Tap amplifiers. We react. Don’t ask yourself if you are awake. Think of trees. Cities like forests. Buildings like trees. Not so hard. Unless you are an airhead with a skull full of Cool Whip sugar-spun candy-ass motherfucker with vapor where your memory should have been. No offense. None taken. We just gotta bare and grin it. ReFED believes food waste is a systemic problem that demands a systemwide response across the entire food value chain.
“Some of its criticism strikes me today as more emotional than I could wish, but, it was not the time to mince words—at least, this was what I then felt.” Milton Hite Parks was captured at The Wilderness and escaped from Andersonville prison. Nobody thanked him for his service. Was it an accident or a suicide? It was neither. He had been drinking. The damn fool. That’s what Granny said. And so they told me. Passed over by the war… found hanging in his store. That’s the family lore. Should it be true? Those eyes had seen the elephant. True as a lucid dream. Did it not seem real? Conjure it for free.
Hypnogogic is the old age of infancy.
Vibes
Stage of Precarious
Dawning of Age (seventh house, third rock)
The future was always made of harder stuff than magic could move, anyway. That’s what they say. We all tell little white lies. Like dry leaves before the wild hurricane fly, when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky. Being nice is more important than anything. Must be the season. Peace and love abound. Take a breath mint. Buy some bell-bottoms. Use cream… rinse. Repeat. Consumption doubles. More so… our troubles. Is there a connection? Yes. There is. And it’s nostril-fuck obvious. Planet cooking, oceans dying, what the focal.
There is a difference between magic and illusion. Doubt and confusion. Spelled differently. See? Because sight is a metaphor as well. Nothing supernatural about it if you pretend to understand nature. Karma becomes Smarma™ at the checkout next to frozen foods. Does the planet have feelings? Don’t know about that, but the sky is crying. US hippies thought we were special. And we were. Still are. A witches’ brew of belief systems (BS) as we fade into time. And the band played Waltzing Matilda. For the ass off battalion in the Dumbass region.
Soon there will be no one marching at all. And that was the idea. We started marching because we forgot how to dance. Bones are old. But the fire is alive. It’s breathing… and it’s training… and it’s something unknown…that well is dry as a loan. And it’s high time you boycotted France. Foucault and the flying green gherkin are uncertain prone. And we all dance alone. Whether you are atoms… or made mountains of stone. Sooner or later we all sleep with a bone. Vibes are the strings to dawn stars burning away. They suspend this belief.
Grandma takes the conn
Suit is ancient black, spelling done by grannies with kettles long before the little red schoolhouse bees went to pot. Little tic tacks on the prairie and they all cook just the same. How he can sleep when dreadnaughts scour every main. Lindsay eschewed the obtuse and drank a bottle of Lysol. Melville dove into the cryptic with Battle Pieces. Put a spell on the mumbo jumbo who do. You are washed in lamb blood red sun in a foreign sky. Your hearts are torched with fire. In the sure and 19th century certain hope. Some restrictions may apply.
Poetry should not mean… but be. Be mean? Like African killer stings be swarming the news. Of all the racist sexist twat handles. Pack a boogie goo in that cancel Hansel and Gretel it up the bloody boom. No Grumpy is allowed among merry seven ok lumberjack habits a-BUNTing (whistle pop) flapping snow white flags in the forest grump. Dopey and Doc get a pass. You get it. Guess where. Vibes on stage of precarious. It thunders and rolls when a bridge falls on trolls at the old folks home in the college. All unfurled is a stage. Cher noble feck a mezuzah!
Days of rage. Remember. China meltdown syndrome and all the flux of a Custer’s back passed to Flanders needle fields and the brittle pig horn. We shill not sheep. No need to expect us. We are here. So be wary. Stupid-heads see war as entertainment. We will cry to you from the ground all we are saying. You know the rest. Chance. Only takes one. Rest. No justice, no peace. No shit. You are not a loan. You are free. Easy as can be. What’s hard is being a fucktard bowling ball dropping into a basket of kittens. It echoes throughout eternity.
Here… there be Dragons.
Pareidolia
George & Eye
Pareidolia is the tendency for perception to impose a meaningful interpretation on a nebulous stimulus, usually visual, so that one sees an object, pattern, or meaning where there is none. There’s nothing more dangerous than doctors, hospitals, and the medical industry. But, ultimately, confidence culture is a distraction. From what? It’s not emotionally intense. It’s a distraction from what is reasonable. What’s reasonable? GND checks all the boxes. But everybody still wants to fight the commies. And look- the oligarchs are pinching each other’s BOATS. Don’t tell me that aint fucking serious.
It’s like pissing on somebody’s shoe. Now they are obliged to kill a bunch of peasants, etc. To uh- send a message (ever heard of email). Oh we’ll get peace. The dirt nap awaits. It’s the transition that is in question. My family is not reasonable. They’re emotional. Emotions are fine. We all have them. But when first-world problems turn them into pot-banging door-slamming hillbilly ghetto folk… one feels compelled to get shitty. Professionals don’t have time for that. Job-site snark is quite different. That’s what we learned working in theatre anyway. Snark gets us jammed in assisted living. Relic camps.
It was a narrow escape this time. And a lucky one. Little skill on our part. But our stories are a personal insult now. Nobody can escape odds like that. Machines see things differently. This includes their own concept of what is a meaningful interpretation. And if you laugh at the idea of machines having concepts, you don’t know any old bikers or pilots or maybe even farmers. They spend most of their time fixing shit that’s busted. DeepDream™ sees dogs in jellyfish. Don’t surprise me none. Especially if you know any dogs. Knowing what we don’t is what they have done for a living. Professionals.
God not ton dog. Machine.
March Fore Word
Slipcraft IV
Beats all the lies you can invent. –Blake
Intravenous takes it easy. Slipcraft™ makes it possible. Sex is usually biological. Gender, however, is cultural. Meta discourse is bullshit. There. You get the rhythm. Now the bullshit starts to patter like bullets. You never hear the one coming that kills you. Postmodern is like that, and it is simply incredulity at Meta narratives. Which is/ are also bullshit. So witch is it? Aha! Compost modern of course. Parody and pastiche. Not to be confused with the big quantum nun-huh, and all that silly moral relativism shit. Cool is the rule. But sometimes…
Hipness is what it aint. Embrace the paradox. Kind of a Zen thing. Not ordained to preach. So fuck it. Become one of those whirling ragheads in the desert or something. Mystics. They eat grubs and crickets. Crazy. Or be a gluten maximus winebibber eh. The answer does not lie somewhere in the middle. But it does. It’s the asshole. Hidden down there between the cheeks. Butt dialing the Flying Dutchman. Allegory. As a literary device or artistic form, an allegory is a narrative or visual representation in which… yerdle derdle durr… babble etc.
A character, place, or event can be interpreted to represent a hidden meaning with moral or political significance. Hidden? Really. What about all that ask seek knock shit. Bad intent. Under their (burka). They make you say underwear. So you forget what you are looking. Huh? Fore. Compost works like One Big Union. Not like a golf course. King James banned that shit in Scotland. Truth with bad intent. Truthful hyperbole. STFU. One. Big. Union. Fore! Maybe it does work like a golf. Duck. Uh noun verb imperative, Clonk.
That’s how meatball works.
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