Dog Poet Transmitting…….
Just because you can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there and just because you can doesn’t mean it is.
Every now and then some of those moments comes around and you segue off into one of those exits of the imagination and you find page after page of impossible reaches into some dreamscape. We’re all searching for some sort of serenity. We get the idea it must be, ‘out there’ somehow but… it’s not. It could be out there but you’d have to bring ‘in there’ along because otherwise you get reminded all the time about something vague and undefined that’s missing.
It’s not all that hard to understand the fascination of money, when it can land you in some sparkling oasis, somewhere far away from everything else, in the Caribbean, the South Pacific… the world’s clutter is nearly everywhere you go. It’s also flammable. The combustibility of the material plane is not in doubt. California is burning right now. In the burgeoning urban wastelands, all manner of fiery circumstance is smoldering beneath the paint rags in the corner of that dark basement, that sits beneath all the gaudy Hollywood fronts up top. Some of the fronts are not so gaudy. They are in serious disarray, a kind of torn and tattered dishabille, of disharmonious and threatening cityscapes, filled with brutalized and boarded up buidings and long narrow shadows that move in synchronicity with the deadly disenfranchised of the American nightmare. From Chicago to Baltimore and curling around like the Fingers of Sauron reaching along the super highways to East St. Louis and beyond, reaching on to the low rider Hells of Riverside and everywhere that the psychopathic social experiments of the self styled elite are having their moments of disorder, before desert gets served; some kind of flambe, I’m guessing.
It is a fitting irony that all that intensifying desire and the frustrations of unreachable objects and objectives, would begin to experience spontaneous combustions because of the pressure of millions of bodies, pressing up against each other in a writhing and twisting frenzy of misdirected need and greed. They aren’t getting anything and they aren’t going anywhere, except back and forth from the apartment to the treadmill. The favored, of course, will have a better success rate. They’ll be knocking them back at those watering holes of privilege, rubbing each other on the back with that ‘hail fellow, well met’ thing, there amidst all of the other slithering snakes of quid pro quo.