Monday Prayer

mjs is guest blogging until the General returns from his Weekend Intensive with that nice man from Seattle. It must be pretty intense indeed because the General's nurse never usually calls on a Sunday, but that is not our concern. Here follows our prayer for the coming week:



Lord, who is God of all that is oilesque
And tar-like, and greasy, and flammable
Dear Lord, may it please you to know
Our wimpy concerns about the environment have abated
Our vision to Vietnamize Afghanistan is proceeding
Our commitment to burn the Black Gold is solid
We burn it in your name, Dear God Man Guy Lord

Oh Yahweh, who doesn't like to be called That
We sing your praises, for You seek our praise
Which is your thing, don't get us wrong, but...
Perhaps you wouldn't kill so many of us if you, well, you know
Took some responsibility...
Forgive us, Lord, for we are made in your likeness
And are therefore full of thine Piss & Vinegar



Forgive us, dear Lord, for just about everything that ticks you off
For the crime of not finding your Cloud Cave
For the crime of not tweaking your Beard
For the crime of not singing popular songs outside your bedroom window
Forgive us, dear Lord
But we don't get around much anymore
Amen-ish



Please excuse our retardification, dear Lord
We know your Math is Supreme
And that which profits our corporations profits Thee
At least that's what we're counting on
For somebody is making money Hand over Proverbial Fist
Surely, Thou dost know this
Truly, You would have done something about this by now
Verily, your silence indicates your interest
For by Your silence You make a Great Noise which none can hear
(pause)
Forgive us our intemperance, but why not just come out and say
Whatever the fuck it is that you want?
Amen



Dear Lord, the Middle Eastern One
The Monotheistic Construct
Not that other one
With all the heads and that massive boner
Just want to be very clear which Lord we're talking to here
Dear Lord
We thank Thee for our cars and our trucks
Our trains and our skateboards
And for sex--without sex Life would suck even harder
Than it does, which is kind of ironic--the sucking part
Well, you get the gist of that

Dear Lord, thank you for our metal and our plastic
Our monofilaments and various and sundry textiles
That take longer to break down than it did for You
To create this vast Amusement Park we call Earth

Just one question: dinosaurs became birds?
Really? WTF dear Lord?

Please give us the strength to get through another week
Of hype and misinformation and managed histrionics
Please embolden us to not just lay down and eat
All of the corporate shit that is routinely fed us
Amen

Dear God:
We hope you don't catch the H1N1 virus
And if you have gonads, please keep them away from a vise
Seriously, we're not joking here
Keep your gonads far, far away from a vise
It would hurt you so much, to have your balls
Crushed in a vise--so much, it is not even funny
Amen

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images taken by mjs near Long Beach, Washington.

Originally posted at Jesus' General.

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion "Freedom isn't free" has died after a brief illness, owing in large part to its inability to pay for badly needed medical treatment. Having spent its early years being invoked to shut up dirty fucking hippies, its later years degraded into increasingly violent confrontations with health insurance companies and their motto "Health Care Isn't Free, It Isn't Even Health Care." With no more Free Time on its hands, it joined the ranks of the approximately 45,000 Americans who die every year because, well, you already know why.

Born during the era of The Vietnam War Isn't Free it was viewed as a comforting remonstration against anyone who ever pussifyingly questioned the rightness of our nation's bloody habit of killing brown people in far away lands. After returning to civilian life it suffered from a variety of ailments, many believed to be a result of traumatic head injuries suffered in bombastic verbal combat. Never exactly sure why Freedom wasn't Free, nor able to say just how much would have been a fair, going-rate price for Freedom, it mostly shook its fist at traffic and listened to Agitated Merakin (AM) Radio.

Having married its childhood sweetheart (Sex Isn't Free) only to discover its mate wanted to keep its night job, it sought a divorce (that wasn't Free) and lived out the rest of its years as a Free Spirit. Not. It fought its addiction to Crystal Meth (Cheaper Than Coke But Still Not Free) and Tobacco (the first carton for soldiers was Free, but after that, not so much) with grit and determination, which it had in buckets (buckets that were Free but had to be returned when it was done with them).

In the weeks before its death, the Opinion was often observed meditating on a litany of uncomfortable realizations: it had discovered that its apartment wasn't Free, its bar tab wasn't Free, its groceries weren't Free and, having failed to appear in court on misdemeanor charges, it suffered the additonal ignominy of facing the fact that indeed, not even its DUI was Free ($250.00 just to post bail!). Its only words to the judge were these: "In the bastardized yet immortal phrasings of Kris Kristofferson: Freedom's just another word for something that isn't free..."

Family of the deceased Opinion are asking that, in lieu of flowers (which aren't free) that each and every one of us do our part to dismantle the Military Industrial Complex until all that's left is a small, fossilized pile of Dick Cheney's draft deferments, which will be placed in a museum where tickets will be sold if you want to get in. War isn't Free, ya' know!

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The Opinuary Column usually appears (for free!) Friday afternoons at Jesus' General--this pre-Friday noon posting is the exception that proves the rule. Heh.

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David Brooks is Delbert Grady

David Brooks has written a piece of shit opinion piece that calls Obama's balls into question, vis a vis his willingness to order the killing of more brown people far, far away, and to sacrifice lives to do it. Brooks is a war-monger, and since his having been breathtakingly wrong about Iraq was not enough to have his soap box taken away, he continues to inject his sickly venom onto the pages of the New York Times. Shame on them, shame on him. Seriously, this crap is indefensible.

Here follows is a copy of the letter I wrote the NY Times in response to his "you ain't got the balls" opinion piece. Yeah, nobody fucking cares what I think or write, but that's not the point, is it? All that has to happen is that you fucking care. Do you?

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Subject: Re David Brooks "The Tenacity Question"

Editors,

David Brooks writes that he contacted "...the smartest military experts" he knows, and finds they all are concerned about President Obama's "determination" vis a vis his being a war president. Brooks writes: "But they do not know if he possesses the trait that is more important than intellectual sophistication and, in fact, stands in tension with it. They do not know if he possesses tenacity, the ability to fixate on a simple conviction and grip it, viscerally and unflinchingly, through complexity and confusion. They do not know if he possesses the obstinacy that guided Lincoln and Churchill, and which must guide all war presidents to some degree." The words employed by Brooks are taut, masculine, intense: Obama must "grip" a "simple conviction" and do so "viscerally" and "unflinchingly." Brooks seems to be pining for George W. Bush's unwavering allegiance to state-sponsored murder, at the same time he's not above hauling in Lincoln and Churchill to provide cover for his bloody fantasy.

What Brooks' writing brought to my mind was a brief encounter depicted in Stanley Kubrick's 1980 film version of the Stephen King novel "The Shining." In the lip-curling scene in question, the former caretaker (played by Philip Stone) of the Overlook Hotel suggests to Jack Torrance (played by Jack Nicholson) that he'd better get on with the task of "correcting" his family. From the film:

Grady: I see you can hardly have taken care of the business we discussed.
Jack: No need to rub it in, Mr. Grady. I'll deal with that situation as soon as I get out of here.
Grady: Will you indeed, Mr. Torrance? I wonder. I have my doubts. I and others have come to believe that your heart is not in this, that you haven't the belly for it.
Jack: Just give me one more chance to prove it, Mr. Grady. It's all I ask.
Grady: Your wife appears to be stronger than we imagined, Mr. Torrance, somewhat more resourceful. She seems to have got the better of you.
Jack: For the moment, Mr. Grady, only for the moment.
Grady: I fear you will have to deal with this matter in the harshest possible way, Mr. Torrance. I fear that is the only thing to do.

What kind of morbid question is Brooks really asking here? Does Obama "have the belly" for the slaughter that will occur as a result of continuing and possibly expanding the war in Afghanistan? To what purpose, this macho posturing? To what purpose should our youth be sent off to kill and be killed, maim and be maimed, driven mad even as they rain despair down on the people of that war-torn region? The mountains of Afghanistan are strewn with the bones of British and Soviet troops whose commanders "had the belly" for sending their young off to die, but shouldn't we all be asking, in the "here and now" as to what purpose do we sacrifice more of our nation's youth? Lincoln preserved the Union, Churchill kept the flame of liberty in Europe burning, but to what purpose should our President "fixate on a simple conviction" and stain the living world with yet more blood and tears?

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Author's note: If David Brooks could feel shame I would bring him over a million servings of it, delivered in caskets, accompanied by a soundtrack that howled from the bitterest depths of hell.

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion regarding Halloween which states "During this period demons are assigned against those who participate in the rituals and festivities. These demons are automatically drawn to the fetishes that open doors for them to come into the lives of human beings. For example, most of the candy sold during this season has been dedicated and prayed over by witches" has died.

The Opinion, born in the fevered pumpkin head of Spooky America, has died this time of year many, many times before, yet it is still carried in the hearts and minds of some of the most addled, frightened and morbidly stupid people this planet has ever known. The true face of evil has no face: it denies you medical care and then blames its shareholders. It tells you what to think, which it does by telling you not to think. The greatest demon in the world today is ignorance, and its reign is secure, its throne unassailable, its primacy unmatched.

In lieu of some vaguely Satanic gift like flowers, the family of the late Opinion ask that you give candy to strangers one night a year, that you answer your door that night with a smile and a "Boo!" and that you live your life as if it was just as much fun as you can imagine it to be. Happy Halloween!




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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Martin, the Porch Spider

on our porch there lives a spider
whom we have taken to calling "Martin"
he is rather large
i suspect he would like to drive my car
if he got pulled over he would freak out the cop

when i return home from work i duck my head
at the entrance--i don't want that huge spider in my face
i look up and say hello to Martin
I try to make small talk:
How are the kids?
Putting on a little weight?
Saw a neat rainbow today
you know, small talk

it would be fun if i had a hat to tip at him when i come home:
"Evening, Martin" said the man, tipping his hat.

Martin never speaks (to me)
but he does flinch when i'm nearby
i suspect that my perfunctory greetings
are grating on him
but he bites his tongue (i think it's a tongue)
and plays it cool:
he's got a good thing going
he eats very, very well
lives in a nice neighborhood
nobody hits him or sprays him
or tells him to get a job

Halloween is coming this Saturday
tomorrow i'm going to ask Martin
if he'll give out the candy
even though he gets cranky sometimes

he'll probably not respond directly to my question
he'll just make that weird face he makes
and then he'll snap his jaw off and scream horribly
hissing his ghastly cries
venom dripping slowly down where his chin used to be
his arms slapping me like hairy scissors
his web alive, crawling with disgorged offspring
thousands of spiders attacking me
dragging me to the driveway
leaving me there to die while they drive away
shrieking hideously, a triumph of hell unleashed

i think i'll wear a hat tomorrow

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image by mjs

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Ardor among the arbor

the trees wear their leaves
until the wind seduces
soon, a nude winter

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image by mjs

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Sing it, Jesus!

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion "You can't buff a turd" has died as a result of injuries suffered during a turd-buffing contest that was held in our nation's capitalism. Apparently, you can buff a turd if it is of a consistency that allows for that sort of thing, but a government that operates on such a belief is likely to be so busy buffing turds that it will be covered in shit before you can say High Colonic. It is believed that a surfeit of lobbyists offering to put a shine on a mounting pile of shit may have led to the death of the Opinion (a case of too much of a shitty thing). The Opinion leaves behind a stench of work-related miseries and a shitload of friends and relatives.

Born among the assholes of our Founding Fathers, the Opinion led a quiet life until television came along, an appliance whose ride to media primacy eventually led to citizens asking embarrassing questions as to why our country was trying to kill small yellow people working in rice paddies. The first known public "buffing of the turd" was held on the White House lawn during the annual Easter Egg Hunt festivities in 1967, at which time napalm was used to counter any and all egg-cloaking foliage. This event turned out to be a turd of such epic proportions that it had to be buffed by a team of fecal-buffing experts, working around the clock until they all ended up with shit for brains. Seriously, if you ever visit our nation's capital stay off the White House lawn.

After the 2000 selection of George W. Bush to be our nation's Cheerleader, turd buffing became the nation's largest growth industry, resulting in the massive hiring of thousands of lobbyists, pundits, apologists, fabulists and fatuous carnival barkers, who plied their trade polishing the ever increasing pile of shit that had grown inside the bowels of our businessment* class. Be it wars based on lies, sweetheart deals for government contracts, environmental degradation, securities fraud, et al, each scurrilous exploitation of the Commonwealth required deft and rapid turd buffing on a scale never before seen on this or any other planet. Oh, what times it had!

In lieu of flowers the family of the deceased Opinion asks that you wipe that shit-eating grin off your face.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

*Business + Government = Businessment (this portmanteau was employed here because fascism jumped the shark and stubbed its anus).

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Fly away, birds

summer was a time for wings
flying on the winds from china
we could fly to rivers running
we could sing beyond the sorrows
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

autumn comes in from the forest
the smell of darkness, land of shadows
the colors of the ancient pageant
leaves they are all falling down
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

looking at the book of nature
the pages all connected strangely
no words to tie it all together
everything already bound
no time for sorrow when you're falling down

loss is not a punishment
this is how the pageant marches
but for a time and then a silence
we are not a riddle to be solved
fly away, birds
fly away
ride the wind
sing what you say
fly away, birds
fly away
sing your songs
and then we'll fly away

lanterns light the evening sky
smoke and wine and laughter sighing
we could lay upon the golden ground
flying kites that pull upon the string
no time for sorrow when you're on the wing

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion "You're no fun anymore" has died as a result of uncontrollable, nay hysterical laughter, apparently experienced while sitting on the couch eating pizza and drinking pork soda and farting and burping and scratching itself and engaging in all manner of disgusting personal proclivities that make for poor theater but excellent television, while wearing very dirty underwear that didn't belong to it and spitting repeatedly on the cat. Authorities have released a statement which reads, in part, "...the Opinion was a turd-monger" and "...not only are you still fun but you smell terrific as well."

The Opinion, born during the vegetative Reagan, pre-Bush 41, ultimately mid-Clinton era of casual prosperity, welfare queen-bashing and bank regulation euthanasia had been enjoying a a renaissance of sorts, commencing with the Bush 43 administration, as wars in Iraq and Afghanistan weren't and aren't terribly fun, and Hurricane Katrina wasn't the laugh riot many had hoped it would be. Not even Condoleeza Rice's buck teeth could get the nation giggling, nor Dick Cheney's habit of shooting people he was out having gun drinks with. No, none of it was much fun, and a lot of people died and had to move and were tortured and conspired against and exploited and manipulated and stomped on and, well, it may have been a lot of things but fun certainly wasn't one of them.

That changed today when I learned that Monty Python was going to be on American television in a documentary about spam which will be shown beginning Sunday (Oct. 18th) through the following Friday (Oct. 23) at 9 p.m. EDT on IFC. Family of the Opinion, who aren't completely dead but aren't at all well, have asked that you stay the hell away and mind your own business. It's bad enough just as it is, thank you, so don't go mucking it up any further. Now run along and do something with your life, for crissakes. Go on. Go.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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Dreams Are Like Spiders in Heaven

dreams are like spiders in heaven
weaving their webs in the dark
lightly they scatter the starlight
some say they're lost in their art
lost in their art

mountains don't share their opinions
rivers don't carry the sun
water is everyone's lover
sometimes you just better run
just better run

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

the roots of the master are lively
digging like crabs in the earth
taste is for lips of desire
blood is what comes with your birth
comes with your birth

line up the numbers and quiver
crunching the lines on the grid
let it all go, and what do you know
take a look and see what you did

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

someone is crawling in ether
they broke the formaldehyde jar
the veins of the forest are emptied
the needles all burned in the car

the metal is twisted and careless
the curves are like waves in the sand
she fell from the wreckage all broken
clutching leaves that looked like a man

here is where fantasy started
here is where romeo died
here is the place
where lover's embrace
here is where juliet cried
say goodbye

dreams are like spiders in heaven
weaving their webs in the dark
lightly they scatter the starlight
some say they're lost in their art
lost in their art

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Image by mjs

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The Opinuary Column

The Opinion "No, they would never do that!" has passed away after a long, dull illness, leaving behind a large contingent of disbelieving friends and relatives who are aghast that apparently there are indeed those in the world who would "do that" and they'd do it to your grandmother and your children and anybody else that stands between them and a few dollars more. Indeed, there are those who would take money for years and years as payment for health insurance, and then one day tell you why they don't have to give you what you've paid for, and maybe you should fuck off while you're at it.

In lieu of flowers, family of the late Opinion ask that you consider thinking for a time about the 45,000 Americans whose death is attributable to their not having health insurance. See you at the wake.

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The Opinuary Column appears Friday afternoons at Jesus' General.

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p.s. Happy Anniversary of your birth, John Lennon! Words are still flowing!

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