It’s mine. F… off!

September 4, 2011

When you talk to teachers about their teenage students, one of the first things you hear is the word ‘entitlement’. The kids have a sense of their rights and demand them. They also have a sense of entitlement toward a host of other things which they do not have a right.

People should know their rights. And demand them. But I think one of the biggest problems in this society is the ‘privileged’. Somehow they think that their wealth is an entitlement. It was either handed down to them or they earned it. ‘Hands Off!’ Well, no. Everyone has the right to reap the rewards of their labor. But how big that reward should be is the question. This is not a serf society where the rights of the King are handed down from God. The rich are not royalty. In a democracy all of these rewards are negotiable.

Someone told me that everything they earn is their’s. The conditions for most people’s earnings is a stable society. That stability is the result of a contract amongst people. An agreement to act peacefully, to obey the laws, etc. One’s property, wealth can only be maintained by a civil society or by the gun.

No doubt you’ve heard much of this before. But when I turn on Fox News all I hear is “It’s mine. F… off!”

 

Andre Breton’s Half Brother

September 4, 2011

I don’t know if there was more despair in the 70s than other periods. Or if it was just our age. Suddenly in our 20s it was becoming clear that the world was not our oyster. That everything was pretty well settled before we showed up. And maybe it has always been settled. Looking back it seemed as if history sort of carried on without us. All the demonstrations we went to. Did they mean anything? It never seemed like Johnson or Nixon were in charge. So we settled on those boys in the back room. Those businessmen. Generals. Maybe no one is in charge. And that was our choice. Paranoia or despair. And what was hope. It was the girl gang raped in Last Exit to Brooklyn.

……………………….

Andre Breton’s Half Brother

 

I am a ghost. Searching for a ghost. Thoughts are memories. If you look into the rear view mirror. You’d better see yourself. Time waltzes. America’s essential puritanical naivitee has been ripped open. Thrown down the steps. Into morning.

 

A strong foul smelling yellow gas. Has escaped. Seeping into everything that has a hole. I hear ‘little boots’ running through the mob.

 

Fingers bandanged. Pieces of my nails stuck in the wood. The doctor doubled over. When I was born. The womb laughed. They had trouble getting my horns out. Had to pull me by my cloven hoves. As a kid I remember strumming a 12 string chain mail fence. And at 13 a premature ejaculation. Venus laying next to me. Asking me to be gentle. Every mother on every corner. Asking the same of each of their daughters. I ran down a hillside. In the middle of an avalanche. Of Buster Keatons.

 

I am the representative from madness. And Andre Breton. How long will the laws of reality bind us. I am a satyr. Put down on this planet. To satiate my cravings. If you want to find the truth. Turn off your television. Tape shut your windows. And doors and burn your calendars. Listen with your lungs. I am death. And I have an appetite. For bigots. And poets. And elevators filled with shutters.

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